N. Ian McCarthy
Robinson, the reverend daughter—flesh of her turned ash ankles pegged into the middle aged tonsures of a pattern balding lot—scrubs her two owned ox calves in the skin temperature socket of a blue plastic blow-up pool. Its waist bilges with the juice of freshly tanked sheep's blood. Clusters of rust, like bog wet cranberry fruit, scale four unripe flanks—they spur into tangled chortles of mane as ornamental bulbs. Still young curds hemorrhage small under the gut bloat of a dead Pegasus. The hobbled urban sun is a stuck kite, its strewn straw hospice an 800 sq. ft. dirt church.