THE BLOOD AND THE CLOTH
David Cowen
descend down the broken stairs
into the darkened room.
touch the imprisoned skin,
soft and unblemished.
it is only child's play.
muffle the sweet protestations
of the unwatched;
unravel the simple trust in smiles
in the anxious eyes.
there will be no scars
release the bleating ewe,
running blindly into the meadow;
wipe the blood of the lamb from your hands
with an unclean cloth.
it is only child's play.