sacrifice of a bull

i hold on to the last patch of corn
in the field behind our house.
the cold is not cold enough.
the sun has worms
& is ready for composting.
all along the sides 
of our winding roads 
there are cobs chipped
& scattered like broken dishes.
i could be thinner. i could be 
the sacrificial bull who is made beautiful 
just before the harvest. we picked 
the persimmons. we gathered
chestnuts. it is too late for most kinds
of holiness. instead, we have the meat room
& the knife that is not sharp enough.
all day i worry about fingers. 
i eat the spare bugs. try to fit
my horns through doorways.
ask other ghosts, "would you like
to be an offering?" 
they pretend not to hear me.
this is the worst kind
of hot potato. passing the slaughter.
when the machine finally comes 
i am ready. i stand on the roof.
the sun is a trampled clementine.
gnats the size of airplanes hover
overhead. i don't need a father
or even a god. i need the july corn. 
the hunters who found me.
fed me cream & said,
"wouldn't you like to save us?"