Slaughterhouse Vigil – Serena R

February 22, 2026

Grassy knoll, the noisy miners come join
you in the morning. Here, the sun is a ring
of appetite burning off the outer world.
The other life was small, full of muscular
treacheries. Here, I hurt no one and am hurt by no one.
The longest hour arrives diffuse, milled hand
over hand through each congested day.
I unfold my sleeping mat. I wash and beat
flattened rice, bathe in the starch runoff.
Across the square, a brumby is released.
Only from my room is it possible to hear
its release. Fresh of the will.
I read its thrumming downbeats
through the accumulated silence.
At dinner, we are told to pray for outlaws. I till the soil
of my assigned garden bed, long and stern, composed
of boyish clay. Not much will take
root as the earth is impure. Still, young heads
push toward the dirt. My pelvis
arches in protest. I pray for the slick. I know
the weak are eaten. My practice is deepened by this fact.
Shedding the dirt of the old world:
the bad soil, the sexed,
the garden slayings where proud life is persisting. I wait
for Him to reveal His hand.
Not to steady the thoroughbred flank,
but to test it for its nervous impulse. Lord of
each lonely deserter.