American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 22
Sheep
Andrey Shamshurin
The sheep curl next to me. I pet their heads. I tell them
they used to be delicious. I don’t lock their pens anymore.
We walk the cliffs. I imagine waves beating against the
rocks below, sediment streaks glowing in the light. They
bleat at me when I near the edge, and I step back. I’m not
sure who herds whom.
When we pass my brothers’ caves, the sheep nip at my
toes and push me toward them. My brothers are probably
watching me, dots of light mingling behind the stone,
nestling together in the dark. If they are there, they say
nothing. They have stopped asking for lamb and cheese,
and I suppose I should be glad. Maybe they feel guilty.
Maybe it doesn’t matter. After a while, the sheep give up,
and we head home.
Sometimes, when I wake up to their wool brushing
against my feet, I can almost see the way he stood in the
center—his men huddled around the fire, blathering some
last goodbye. Not him, his fingers pressing the bowl of
wine into mine, blonde curls gleaming from the flames,
tongue rising in flashes, talking about gods and freedom. I
hear, smell the sour fumes seep into the walls, watch dark
liquid swirl around the rim. When I drank it, it tasted like
rotten meat. But I smiled and asked for more. “I don’t
know if I can eat this man,” I thought, watching his skin
glow until I fell asleep.
Everything is black again, and I am surrounded by sheep.
“Why can’t I eat you?” I ask their warm little bodies.
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American River Review
They don’t answer. I roll the boulder to the side and sit
on the ground. In the distance, my brothers’ voices rise
and fall against themselves—for a second, I swear a coil
of light pulses with every sound, each syllable. The sheep
push at my back.
I gulp down the last of the foul wine from the bowl. The
sheep gather around me, and I curl next to one. I pin it
down with my fingers. It doesn’t struggle when I wring
its neck. The others don’t run. I sling the limp body over
my shoulder and walk toward the voices.