The Blooding

I remember the smell of rubbed tobacco, And the shiny black boots that squeaked when they walked, My Father kept an ivory horn in his belt, He would obsessively check it every moment, I remember the cackle of their laughter, And the cut glass accents of Private school when they talked. All the horses were meticulously brushed, And the hounds were intimidated systematically, A palsied old man would stick tape to his monocle, His horse was wilder than a foxglove. I remember seeing the red jackets ride in unison, And polishing the brass motif on his ancestors gun. The sky was always vivisected by dusk, My Father always said a red sky is a good omen. When I saw him return from hunting, I thought he had been shot in the face, I ran to hug him crying throughout the embrace, My father laughed and asked if I wanted to be a man, I excitedly agreed, He then grasped my neck, And cast my face in to the vixens entrails, All I remember is the taste, The texture of a black jelly on my tongue, And the laughter of the huntsmen, The disappointment etched on my fathers face like a late picasso, Blurred in salt tears that burned the foxes blood, It was my blooding, My coming of age, And I hated my father for turning the page.