United States, (contemporary)
It Was the Damn Pig
- and the heat.
- Running after the damn pig
- in the damn August heat
- Over and over, in circles, running
- in the damn heat after the damn pig
- Corner him into the pickup, chase him
- to slaughter, up the ramp to the back
- Of the rusty red pickup, but he kept running
- in circles, damn fast, corner to corner,
- In his damn sty, next to the barn, on the hill
- behind the house, in the prickly, dry grass
- In the damn August heat, all four of us running,
- me, my brother, my dad and the damn pig
- Hearts pounding, throats croaking, sweating like
- pigs, pig squealing, a frenzied dervish,
- Anger building, blood beating, squeals piercing,
- hearing only the swearing, the squealing,
- When the damn pig sprinted up the damn ramp
- into the back of the faded red pickup.
- Dad slammed the tailgate shut, locked it, triumphant,
- sweat pouring, breathing deep, breathing dust,
- Breathing heat, the pig heaving, heaving grunts,
- breath slowing, limbs shaking, heart squeezing,
- Daddy sliding, slowly sitting, sitting on the footrest, slowly
- pillowing, head on crossed arms, pleading rest,
- For just a minute, eyes closing, an eternal minute, silent
- in the damn August heat, against the rusty red pickup
- with the damn pig.
© Cindy M. Buhl. NELLE, Issue One | 2018. Lauren Goodwin Slaughter, Editor. University of Alabama at Birmingham, Department of English Publications.
About the Poet:
Cindy M. Buhl, United States, (contemporary), is a poet and foreign policy advisor and writer for a member of the U.S. Congress
Her recent work has appeared in Absoloose, Vol. I, and District Lines, Volume IV. She has a BA in Spanish/Hispanic Literature and resides in Washington, D.C., where she is a member of The Writer’s Center. [DES-01/22]