A Drift of Pigs

In the clearing past the woods
behind our neighborhood, we found
a shot-up car, glass dangling from the
gaping windshield like broken teeth,
a half burnt farm house with canned goods
and fruit preserves still on basement shelves
and outdated, thin cotton dresses in the closet

Better yet, an abandoned barn—full of straw
and a lazy rope— surrounded by a fenced yard
of wild grass and weeds needled through
two jerkified pigs, whiskered leather and teeth
eyes shrunken black

Squeals and groans
slow motion survey of the strange scene
tiptoeing through awful weeds

Who left you in the yard?
Was the farmer’s wife crying?
What is it like to die naked beneath the sky?
Was it night?
Were you hungry?

Yellow spread light across me,
my best friends and the pigs like butter

We moved from mundane mystery
to the stubborn barn door,
ran through the maze of stalls rich
with sweet old stink

Forgetting unlucky pigs, numb
or, perhaps, reveling in our living limbs
despite the pigs, we took turns
with the thick rotting rope, leaped
from the loft and swung
from rafters like promise
after promise after promise, flying,
falling into straw, newborn pigs
stunned by air and gravity
looking up into dust riding light


2 Responses to “A Drift of Pigs”

  1. Cher says:

    I can’t list all the ways this bit of inspiration/harbinger reaches me. So boldly told. And as always. The title…….draws

  2. wordweed says:

    Thanks, Fey. So good to see you back here. I just realized YESTERDAY that it’s National Poetry Month. I guess that’s understandable, given you know.

    But I’m bound and determined. I hope you’re posting poems too. If so, where?

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