Leather wombs, payments of lamb shanks, still births . .
Dani Sandal plus Kathy Acker plus William Burroughs plus plus plus
House Call: 1936
Beneath naked bulb hung from twisted cord, a black-bagged surgeon stoops to stroke porch dog dozing on bloodied bone. Inside his leather womb, steel instruments, useless as dried teats of this fat-bellied bitch, still smell of vinegar. His sway-back nag waits, an empty cradle, stayed atop prairie plane. Payment of lamb shank, tucked tight in coat sleeve; its sacrificed skull buried deep behind slaughter house. He has soaked the woman’s sorrow with ether-drenched rags now burning in fires of cedar bough as smoke slinks from stone flue like drunken angels toward heaven’s floor. Barren moon hovers, blue as stillbirth, this quiet night.