I rise before light—pad through the dark,
down stairs my bare soles know by tread.
I dream until the rain alerts my scalp
outside the unlatched wire-screened kitchen door,
then walk, still waking, through the morning dew.
The hill beyond the pasture houses hens,
and to their left, against the trees, lie pens
where pigs are kept, for butchering today.
Frank’s .22 to stun, a rag-wrapped knife
and kettle wait here with the kindling wood.
The hill, too steep to dam the drizzling rain,
accepts my farm boots’ purchase. I ascend,
not thinking much of piglets in the spring,
except they’re dirty; less of roasted pork.
I tell myself to see today as work.
My cousin’s here. We single out a sow;
Frank fires point-blank,
the muzzle jammed against her thrusting forehead.
Her eyes stay small. She staggers, then she falls.
Unwrap the knife. It warms its cold sharp blade
in blood. At last the rolled eyes close.
We talk while chaining her hind hooves,
then winch her heavy weight until she hangs.
Hanging there, her head is horrid, huge.
The steam from tumbling entrails bathes my face.
I hold the zinc tub, wondering if I’ll faint,
and find I don’t. We add wood to the fire.
We scald the carcass, shave it head to tail.
The knife and axe carve cutlets, chops, slabs of fat—
skin slick with water, still warm beneath the blade.
The watery sun comes up.
The crows across the pasture chance a flight.
There’s breakfast on the wind that blows our way,
aromas: bacon, coffee.
He tells me I’m a man now that I’m ten.
Earth Tourist 