At The Butchers In Colmenar
A framed, blown-up photograph hangs on the wall:
the t-shirted butcher’s son and his wife, on their honeymoon
in Manhattan, the towers in the background, the date:
September 10, 2001..
Behind the counter, a steel door opens: a glimpse
of pale waxy carcasses, smell so thick I could colour it
black-red: the colour of history. Outside, I breathe
warm streets, damp from a recent shower.
An old man swings past on crutches. What do I know
about history? Dawdling under a nearby orange tree -
its perfect glimmering system - I think
of reaching to pluck one.
Mark Granier
