Eric Mould

Finegand Chain Three

Four hundred horsepower of Mack Ultraliner reverses among half a dozen clones, queued to dock at the Works. Ray’s face in the mirrors earlobes the cab, focused—intent. Perfectly aligned the trailer nudges into rubber buffers, the tractor unit remorselessly closes the gap, telescoping the tang, crashing together! Shiny steel capped boots tread the clutch and stomp—the brakes snort!

arbeit macht-frei—
red raddled lambs balk
partway down

Shepherds’ dogs bark, steel-tubed gates rise and swing, and fingers stab tallies into the air. Lambs leap imagined chasms. Blue raddled between their ears—the mob steams, huddled in the pen’s rear third. Ewes squat and gush urine, handfuls of Hooker’s Green beads roll through gaps in steel meshed grating.

Not one of Andy’s numbers was struck the other night. He pulls out the Lotto chit, gives it one more inspection; then it’s screwed up and falling—

above Crete—
the paratrooper shudders,
raining blood

Ali nods repeatedly toward the kiblah marked on the wall, “Bi-smi llahi l-rahmani l-rahimi” he mumbles when the Iranian mullah visits. Later the red-hatted board walker switches on the speaker. Humming to decanted Led Zeppelin and snagging hocks, he watches Ahmed’s whites speckle with crimson—

early Sunday—
beer can rolls on
the Stirling straight

Len’s knife strokes the carcass along the pizzle line, his wrist tilting the blade from thumbs up and over, sliding the point in, twisting it quarter of a turn and down. The guts billow out against his lower forearm. He slashes left and right, scabbards the knife and with both hands reaches in and wrenches down, then up and out, pivoting around to drop the pluck on the gut tray. He could do it blindfolded.

“Easy as, like bloody magic mate”.

That accent, Birmingham?

sudden peripheral movement—
in Belfast flinching, cocking the FN
automatically