The severed heads
of roosters
littered the drive,
the yard.
We walked round them
unsure of what we’d missed—
some comic scene unfolding,
a drama
with cello music playing,
Hitchcock
standing
in silhouette.
I suppose I should
never have been
fooled,
but what did I know
of gallows?
There was fading light
in the lamps, and I was
distracted by
the pleasure
of softening together
like butter in the pan.
Really,
what did I know
of hatchets
in the shed
still warm with blood,
holding your hand
like a miracle
trying to avoid
the inevitable
slaughter at dawn?