There’s a place in the heart of South America 
it’s called Mato Grosso 
and means thick bush,
the vaquero knows
he has to sacrifice 
the head of the herd 
to move the rest 
across a body of water

Nobody wants to embody 
front-line infantry 
it’s cruel and primitive,
old ox advances cautious
on shiny shards of glass
invisible mistakes with sharp edges 
cracking and cutting
under his toes

In between the river banks 
the slaughter has started:
fidgeting in the turbid 
thousands of piranhas’ bites
defeat, shame and regret 
feast on his flesh 
so the others may learn 
how to navigate, safely
around their sibling’s bloody footprints