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. Anne Symons 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."
2 Comments
Carole Mertz
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.
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Janette Schafer
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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May 2025
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