jean

‘Little rabbit’ he always called me. Overstrung, swift and wary. ‘Pretty in the way that charms danger, darling.’ he’d quip. I’d always roll my eyes, but now I can’t help but feel that he was right.

He has always had hiding spots; I’d find him in his rickety shed tucked away behind Pebbly Hill, far from the suburbs, axing pinewood or carefully carving cedar. Between animal skulls and tanned hides pinned to the shed’s wooden walls were ornate wooden frames and detailed lamp fixtures, dark timber wine racks and ornamentary animals dangling from twine. My favourite was always the leaping hare he fashioned, back feet curled and front paws flying through the air. He said he made that one just for me. He would talk so passionately about his woodworking as if he weren’t a butcher by trade; as if you couldn’t smell a metallic tang on his clothing, ammonia and smoke that reminded you of his real work. The abattoir comes home with him. There’s iron in the air and on his lips when we kiss.

he'd go with me anywhere'

new music from jean elliot, april 18

photos of band by shakey gould.

the butcher's desk; a letter to caroline.

just a shepherd and a scapegoat ankle deep in dying scrub what we found there might be fools gold, but- he was the first to call it love.

powerlines, pylons.

the lovers, the butcher, the flame

the butcher

oh how I'll miss you

with the head of a hare and a jaw for a heart it lures you in, and rips you apart

are you still watching?

in the dank devil's wilderness walks a wretch with a drawl. with limbs in a duffel, she goes dragging her shovel, until she feels nothing at all.

can you still hear the wind chimes?

tell me, what have you done?

doomed to the crosshair or the headlight.