Pig Slaughter
____________________________________

The house that held it
Still stinks of death. The hurdle
Worst to cross was killing.
The butcher with his butcher’s gun
Arrived and got himself acquainted
With the pig. The pig has knowledge,

Too; the pig is kind or cruel
Depending; it winces like a dog
Before it’s hit. The happy butcher
Slung it to the ladder standing upright
At the house, and from the neck
He sliced the dead, delicious skin.

Into a drum the life pumped.
He stirred the blood by hand. Someone
Cleaned the guts. Someone cooking barley
Stuffed it hard into the warm, blue tubes.
The rest is tenderness. The roasting of the pig
Is like no quiet I have known.

From The Clearing by David Keplinger

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331

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