Buzkashi

A husband puts an afghan over the dead goat’s torso, combs the knots out of  her beard. The goat smells chalk, wonders when the riders will come in their wool pakols red from walnuts, spurs chirring like castanets. The buzkashi whips will grow damp in their mouths, their rope belts slowly twisting in place. She knows not to be devoured is a perfect sentiment because she has thoughts to gather, faces to grow, hunger this morning and no throat, only the song in her teeth that goes on indefinitely as he saws off each hoof, just above the ankle, her knees bent for praying. Her head is axed. Her collar falls to the ground, its circle unbroken. She looks to see how deep is the pool of  blood is a river of  no one becoming her. With salt in her heart she’ll stay good for days. He’s been to her like her father he killed. He’s been to her like the father he killed. He turns her face to the window: mountains oddly still in the milk broth of oblivion. Intercourse: the sun drove a man in the ground like a stake.