The Cannibals


Someone is bleeding, we see the spots
on the carpet, check yourself, check

yourself for cuts, we murmur, mill
about, slowly raising our palms,

inspecting our elbows and buttocks,
the French maid enters the great

hall and we tell her of our concern,
someone is bleeding, we say, look

the spots are fresh, she is silent,
unamused, removes the stale

croissants with a flourish, check
yourself, someone calls after her,

then great chocolate labs stream
through the French doors, we try

to grab their collars as they dash past,
their paws, their eyes need inspecting,

they could be bleeding, it happens all
the time to dogs you know, large insensate

beasts, but they elude us, rapid and soft
as a brown river of sparrows, the hall

fills with thumping echoes for a moment
after they pass, someone is bleeding,

someone says, but it is time for lunch
and we all return to what we were doing

before someone was bleeding: chess,
model boats, detailed sketches

of imaginary cathedrals.