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Did you help your father with the family chores when you were young?
They bled the pig
on the side of the barn that faced the sun.
The day’s heat warmed the blood on
the grass and the flies were out in full force.
He ignored them
and worked the knife around the leg bones,
carving the pig with surgical precision.
He glanced up at his son, the boy’s eyes
staring down at the pig in horror.
“Boy?”
“Yeah, pa.”
“Take this knife.”
He reached for the knife.
“Now do like I did on that other leg.
Go slow, boy.”
He smiled, and drove the knife
into the back of his father’s neck.
The force of his thrust pushed the knife
all the way through, leaving the tip hanging
out of his father’s throat.
Silent gasping and the thrashing
of hands.
He saw the life in his father’s eyes blink
and then die.
He sat back against the barn wall
and waited for the sun to go
away.
Is poetry more than we want it to be?
Good morning, QV. I see your thumb is in working order.
From "they bled the pig"
to "go away" I didn't
blink.
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