United States, (fl. 1997- 2005)
The Pig Scramble
- I ask her to tell my favorite story.
- To tell me how she would catch
- that pig.
- Her dad said that cousin Paul
- almost caught one
- at the Addison County Fair.
- Printing each letter with care, she slips her name into the slot.
- Certain to be slyer, smarter,
- she leans over the steel gate, and waits.
- What were you wearing? I ask,
- already interrupting
- so I can place myself within her story.
- I become the neighborhood girl, looking on,
- swinging my curiosity like long braids.
- I collect details until I can picture her stance
- determined and lean. Last year’s Levis,
- oil stains and holes from when they were Joel’s.
- The three-quarter jersey, too tight, worn thin.
- I can smell the onions, peppers, french fry shacks.
- The manure, fresh and clean, she says
- like fermented wheat.
- Rehearsing her maneuvers,
- she imagines the clang of a bell
- and four young pigs dart into the pen,
- a dozen kids, mostly farmers’ sons, close behind.
- She would speed out, spectators cheering,
- and slide knees first
- toward that smooth pink swine,
- grab its back legs as it squealed
- like tires spinning in spring mud,
- scrambling to her feet before the boys.
- A respectable hero, she’d parade around the fair
- with her prize,
- bailing twine around the pig’s neck.
- A Vermont rodeo.
- She tells me her uncle won a dirtbike
- on the 4th of July
- because she said his name, Uncle Pete
- UnclePeteUnclePeteUnclePete, until he won.
- She begins repeating her name, fast
- then slow
- willing Mr. Morris to announce it
- adding please God, please
- even after
- the last name is called.
- I stop her again, this time to ask how,
- exactly,
- did she plan to keep that pig
- from wriggling away? She laughs
- and, before I persist, I am pinned
- between her forearm and chest.
- She says my breasts are softer
- than the backside of April’s udder,
- her child hood cow. Years ago
- drinking fly-strained milk
- straight from the jug,
- reading Laura Ingalls Wilder,
- rigging lawnmower motors to go-carts
- gave her life meaning.
- In a Buffalo suburb, I sat cross-legged
- eating Kraft cheese slices
- from cellophane wrappers,
- watching Romper Room on TV,
- waiting for my name to be called
- through the Magic Mirror.
- Voice dry, with the pride
- of a ten-year old tomboy, she says
- I would have caught that pig.
- I kiss her forehead
- and ask her to tell me her story
- again.
© Jen Matthews. Out In The Mountains, “The Winners – OITM 2000 Poetry Contest”.Vol. 15, No. 3, April 2000. Pages 20-22.
From the Porkopolis Archive:
- Pig Wrestling and memory also figure into Carrie Jerrell’s poem Pig Wrestling, where the cornered pig is like memory that’s “stuck somewhere between forbidden and forgotten.”
About the Poet:
Jen Matthews, United States, (fl. 1997- 2005). Matthews is/was a poet and social activist in the region of Burlington, VT. This poem was the Honorable Mention prize winner for Out In The Mountains 2000 Poetry Contest. [DES-08/19]
Editor’s Note:
Additional information on this artist is needed here. Please contact me if you can help.