Finger Fillet

He beat me
with seven stone
with the sharp fillet knife
my knuckles open and slashed bad
blood red bright
thunk the hunting knife resounding
the table top wood
heavy lumber somewhere in the old forest
dragged here by hearty
draft horses slipping down
Spring's wet slopes
the yellow carpet of nature
oration underfoot
the hair matted and muddy over those
thunderous hooves

a flourish, finally
   and a pretty pattern with the oiled knife
chips of old growth wood
splinters explode beneath the blade's thrust
cold mountain air
a fog between us
a crowd of banal bystanders like cattle
in morning mug

I tend to the curve of my concentration
sing-song of the skinning blade
a sharp focus
sharp fillet knife
but slip, I inevitably do
I am not meant for greatness
whump on the wood
silent into my second knuckle cut
pain is my reward
bright blood
and defeat.

TA