Let me tell you how it was
the night they killed the pig
squealing and screaming
beside the frozen river
while we waited to be counted.
The man on the sow
plunged and pulled back his blade,
the woman ready with her skillet
to catch the slide of blood.
Hot-iron smell coated our nostrils
and stuck in our throats.
Such a perfect piercing.
Such a fine pig.
We saw how the young girl
waited warm inside her cloak
while the donkey breathed beneath her
and the baby shifted in her womb.
This poem was first published in Orbis Quarterly International Literary Journal.
Anne Symons: "I come from Cornwall and studied at the University of Wales, Swansea. I have worked in the UK, Sri Lanka and India, teaching poetry and drama to deaf children and adults."
7/18/2019 09:01:15 pm
What a wonderful occupation you have, Anne, and what a beautiful poem! You put us directly into the scene.
7/19/2019 11:50:06 am
Reading this poem is such a tactile experience. All of my senses were engaged. Brava!
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