Killing the Cow

It’s at the back of my mind, and then it’s at the fore of it: killing the cow. I’m not sure how I got
picked for that thankless task. It’s too late for that. I don’t even eat meat anymore. I put one blade
in between the shoulder blades like I’d seen done to bulls in Madrid, and I pulled it out. Nothing.
The animal drifted off. I forgot about it, rather I tried to forget about it. I sought a room to absorb
the shock. I entered into a conversation in which I confessed I winked at myself in the morning
mirror as I combed my hair. I questioned the unkempt appearance of one of our tribe recently lost
to us while knowing the answer. The dead are unkempt. Dress them as you wish. Some things
should never be discussed. I went back outside and found a woman testing her new love jetpack.
She was doing fine, bouncing into some of the lawn chairs, the unlit torches, otherwise fine. An
ex-President appeared. The son. Not the father. The one with one less middle initial. Save I, no
one knew who he was. He glistened with sweat and had a neck tattoo of numbers I tried hard not
to stare at, should they stare back at me. We became friends, even though I had once harbored a
murderous rage with respect to him and all matters concerning him. We started a guess-who-I-am
game that we had to abort. The kids stared blankly; they didn’t know enough to shrug their
shoulders. I gave the ex- a hug, sensitive that he was a nobody now like me. Back to the cow: I
was no longer responsible for her murder. At one point she got up from the floor with a blanket
on her back and let out such a scream when she saw me I saw the end of the world in an open
mouth. I couldn’t even figure out where the blade would go next in all those bones. I saw bones
where vocal cords should be. I left that place and time, and I suppose that cow eventually died.