They call this μ ,
Dad says, unholstering
his hands, showing
me next how to split
bamboo with a finger,
how to plunge beneath
grooves of gut,
extending, clasping
the heart as if a throat.
He says he saw a man
gore a bull this way.
Others have torn
horns from bulls,
but who has driven
a spear-finger
into a chest, fumbling
in the cavity, twirling
tight chords for sport?
He tells me how once
his hand slipped
inside a sternum,
how he hemorrhaged
guilt like an old wine-sack.
There is no enemy, he says,
only a reflection.
When you’re in the pocket,
you’re alone.