by Kristin George Bagdanov

I am the weakest lamb. 
I am the
residue of what world
could soon be.
What use are the meek?
Their words cannot dull a blade,
unsplit sinew from bone.
Cannot uncast the stone
or hold a body’s tears 
with their unmarked faces.
Pasture me—splayed 
hoof, lynx jaw, clover chewed to root—and I
might bleed into being.
I examine my own body
like a butcher: a pound
of this flesh
will bring no
great price.