Sarah Hymas

Tourniquet

The abattoir is closed. But inside,

naked, he pushes the beam, slavishly, round and round

on a pivot, running so his belly, thighs and buttocks judder.

The dusted wheel draws a chalky circle.

A woman with prepubescent breasts

doesn’t watch but flicks her bathwater. She climbs out to drip

drip, drip. Her nipples are dripping.

Her nipples’ goosepimples are dripping.

They dress with the balance of gymnasts.

The black and white of waiters; a waitress with suspenders.

Why not? A fruity red fills and refills their glasses.

Fingers grow: tug, touch, unbutton.

Before the wine slews them. Floored. Trousers too tight.

She peels hers off, dances on a crooked cross.

Top-hatted, no tail.

Her angel, lithe with blonde hair, milk skin

and curvature of the spine, swings on the beam.

He oils wings on her, thickly. There is no flight

but baptism, rough, in a tepid bath

with rubber gloves and surgical aprons.

Brought down by plastic, she is ghostly. Crucified.

Reborn into funeral black, ruched skirts and zippered collars.

Powdered faces, red lips, bloody chins, fish eyes.

Wigs revealed; removed. They do not move.

The beam is washed, chalked and set

with nineteen glasses, fat, thin, squat and fluted.

Red wine splashes, fills and pours

then drips on the brick tiles.

A yak head, splayed horns: an excised womb and tubes.

She spins, slathered, legs inverted.

Its tongue a wet penis.

Oil. Blood. Chalk. Oil. Blood. Chalk.