I would make myself watch:
‍
The sheep trussed
lying on her side
eyes going dull, throat sliced open 
blood spurting into a basin

while Luis sang softly 
sawed the jugular deftly
steadied her gently 
through death’s brief spasm.
‍
I stood by –

Luis blowing coca leaves
              calling to mountains:
              Lords Antaqaqa, Pachawani, Ayapata
              look kindly here, this blood is yours.    

Once
he offered me the knife:
You do it this time?  

Could I? 
             Bear down on the blade
             saw straight across the throat
             hold the creature steady
             while she bled and died?  
Perhaps.

But could I 
              call those hungry mountains
              bring them close 
              to join with her in death 
              and us in gratitude?  

              No.
                            The moment passed.