He held the heart, an apple

drawing from the chest
he held the heart – an apple,
in red black and dead;
wet coloured, smooth – as flawed
and as perfect as marble.
and the legs were rock-
heavy, and clay clinging
stiff. he drew the knife
in against the ribcage
like crowbarring open a padlock.
a friend was doing research
for a novel he had planned:
an abattoir. I'd been invited.
was curious. went. we watched
his hands, the time
as it moved through
the window, slow as bones
cooling in butchershops.
the room was kept dry
but so cold it felt wet.
we didn't want to see this
but one shouldn't shy
off an experience. later,
presented with bags
of ham as souvenirs,
and knucklebones,
we said it had been
interesting. something
like seeing a priest work the altar,
or a mechanic a broken-down car.