By Robinson Quintero

It was my grandfather’s trade He bustled about
all day among the flies
and quartered livestock
his hands soaked in blood

My child’s eyes soon got used
to looking at his sharp knives
and his stained old apron
without repulsion

A skillful town butcher
he worked well

Without minding his offensive
and impure appearance
he prefered to joke as he handled
the meat with pleasure

He wrapped it in plantain leaves
as if instead of small slices
he were wrapping
the fat first fruits of a god

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