Nobody Owns a Real Sheep Anymore
I glance over to where my mother squeals under the influence of fresh yarn. The sheep chews nervously. Black beady eyes grow cloudy from helpless stress.
I can’t stand them any longer and mush my steak into my pancakes and make a burrito.
“Communists. They’re all communists,” says Uncle Lester standing next to me. He lays his tongue, a real grower on my shoulder.
I turn away and grimace in agonizing remembrance. That tongue has seen animals. “Not now, Uncle,” I say.
The women laugh and chortle and knit their sweaters all the while taking turns making threatening gestures with their big knives at the sheep.
Outside the snow turns blue and I apply lip balm and take a vodka rectal suppository.
Too many crackers before dinner. My tongue is cut up from the crackers.
“Don’t talk to me about the sheep,” I say. “Why not? It is a good sheep,” says Uncle. He smokes a cigarette.
“Don’t talk to me about the sheep.” Uncle shrugs and puts a second cigarette into his mouth and lights it with the first. “It won’t survive the yarn lust long. Goats, those old women. Roots, stem, and everything. Not sustainable grazers.”
“Don’t talk about it.” “I’m not talking about it, only there’s nothing else to talk about.”
“Let’s talk about many other disgusting things.” “I’m agreeing with you. It’s not right.” “Why can’t they pick a sheep that doesn’t have the voice of a man?” “There aren’t many of the old sheep left.”
“It’s enough to make you sick hearing them talk through the whole process. None of it needs to happen.” “No, none of it needs to happen.” “You enjoyed the sheep, too. Did he say anything?” “Nothing I could understand. It’s just words, you know. They don’t know what they’re saying.”
“I wish they wouldn’t at all.” “No one does.”
