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Orb-like the pink eye-lashed apple-fed
pig planted his four hooves in the dark
pen and stared at me. I remember his

refusal to tremble at the hand-held
spear, his blind digging in before
the hawked-out split ended his fat

life. The sweet sausage Grandmother
made was a matter of fact. Sure as
a pilgrim she worked Thanksgiving

spices into the meat, patting the soft
flat mounds into bald pancakes we ate
from her hand in the old kitchen under

the pear tree, its windows looking out on the
snow fence, on the sloped barns, the empty
fenced-in square where he once stomped and breathed.
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Author:Aldrich, Nancy
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2018
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