Sacramental

She’ll want to name the lambs again this spring

despite the desolation autumns bring.

I’ll tell her we’ll still kill them, eventually all,

but most will not survive beyond the Fall.

She’ll swear this time she truly understands

the markets, economies, business demands.

Regardless of the slaughter, things still need names.

We can’t change that, she’ll say. Or Heaven’s claims.

 

The first she’ll make an Alfie, the final Zed,

as crazy with naming she’ll ramble through the shed,

among the nursing mothers in pens of fresh straw,

this ritual of identity, for one and all.

 

I’ll roll my eyes and raise my palms, but all for no use,

since finally - she, the lambs and I - all belong to Zeus.

© 2009, Jim Gourley

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