From Soft Geography, published by Caitlin Press in 2007.
in plastic bags on tuesday nights we load frozen corpses from industrial-sized freezers into the back of the suzuki. we drive the kilometre fast on the icy highway from the clinic to the mill and in the compound, we dodge trucks and loaders and stop at the base of the beehive burner. chips of fire blast from the grill at the tip hot orange flares in the noisy dark; we haul stiff dogs and half-calves up the metal stairs onto the clanging conveyor that rattles dead cats to the top and rolls them into the blaze. dad yells up these beasts are killing me and his faint voice jogs with every clanking step. I can see fur through this white bag still trying to pretend I hold only garbage; I carry the little ones, birds and guinea pigs and gophers while dad wrestles the doberman and the stiff-limbed german shepherd onto the belt that will jerk them into the flames. bang-clink sings the chain that pulls the chips up and up and rolls the frozen animals into a caged and giant fire that whooshes and rails away the winter.
