Sydney Bradley
INSTRUCTIONS FOR SACRIFICE
Sacrifice your prettiest cow.
Don’t tell your husband. He is economically concerned and has a soft spot for this particular cow.
You have no idea how to sacrifice an animal, do you?
Wash your hands in the coldest ephemeral spring. The sensation can remind you you’re a mammal with an intelligent nervous system.
Select a blade twice the width of her neck in length.
Recite a hymn. Whichever. A hymn for the dawn.
This should not be done during fly season.
Kill the animal with its head turned upward to God, unless the sacrifice is for the underworld, then head is down.
In one quick incision, you will cut the esophagus, trachea, carotid arteries, and jugular veins. The incision must not pull or tear, and must be performed in one motion without pause. The animal will die within two seconds. (We’re not there yet, I just want you to be ready.)
No pause.
You are a primitive woman.
Your husband doesn’t think you can slaughter an animal with a name, but you will do it for your frenemy God, who knows all our names and kills us nonetheless, one by one.
Libations and incense can be given by onlookers, but likely, you’ll be alone.
Throw pieces into the fire in the following order: thighs, fat, wine libations.
Do not feast on the remains.
Do not feed the remains to the chickens, the dogs.
(Because she is your prettiest cow, and you’ve doted on her since you slid her out her mother, mere minutes after your own morning of lovemaking by the stove—I won’t tell if you bury the remains with the pumpkins. Or do something weird in consideration of your own heart).
You are older than you look.
And your husband is the oldest man in eleven prefectures.
Last week, the government sent three officials with a wax-sealed certificate congratulating him on his 129th birthday.
You noticed the officials through the window while you scrubbed his tiny potatoes.
In his slippers, he met them in the speckled orchard he planted as a young man.
Your husband is practiced at a great many trades. But he has no idea about sacrificing your prettiest cow, who you secretly named Ore, against his customs.
Better to just leave him out of this.
This one’s for you, or Something.
The ghosts of his previous wives agree.
They make this clear by distracting him at opportune moments.
Once Ore is gone, your husband will notice her empty stall.
Tell him the Truth.
The ghosts will protect your honor.
Your husband will pretend he is not crying when he rises from the table, looks out the window above the sink, his back toward you, and asks “Why? Why?”
It is acceptable if you do not have the answer.
It is between you and your God.
Now, we’ve arrived, and it’s time.
It’s important not to rush the bye-bye.
Her eyes.
Her head.
Brush your garden out of her hair.
She’ll look to you who fed her today, yesterday.
Like a child that may have been yours if the stars were otherwise inspired.
Like a giant embryo without language.
Do not look away.
You are her mama, halfway.
You too are economically concerned, maybe.
And you’re doing this thing for your future children—for their health and happiness.
That’s what you’ll say when you take the blade to her neck, then set it down again for another deep breath.
Remember about the pause.
Will your children ever be born? When is the time for them?
Ore takes a final shit—a mortal.
“I don’t like this, I don’t like this,” you’ll whine, but it’s no use.
You made your decision ages ago, as a girl, even.
After it is done, it is important not to be angry with He who has given you everything.
Your baby does not hate you.
Bake a nutty cake for the rude constable and his spinster daughter.
Go to the river and collect some clay for dolls.
Sprinkle your prayers like birdfeed, all around the corners, as if dusting up.
Fix your hair.
You have earned your distractions with a kiss.
You have earned your distractions one by one.
By one.
SYDNEY BRADLEY lives in Eugene, Oregon, where she moonlights as a midwife’s apprentice and teaches writing.
