White-Handled Knives

By Calen Romig

Sheep lay in threes 

Along the roadside 

And fall into the rivers 

Like the houses 

In small clusters 

Hunkered down   

Behind basalt and black horses 

As if hiding 

From the ocean salt 

And we watched a movie 

Where he kills a rooster 

In the woods 

Because it is aggressive   

Treating violence with violence 

And I wonder if those trees

As witness 

Were planted 

Or if they are the remains 

Of the old birch forests 

Icelanders wear dull sweaters 

With swaths of color 

Across their chests 

To buy a bottle of wine 

Navigate the streets 

With caution 

Mourn loss loudly 

And slit cod up the spine

With white-handled knives

By Calen Romig