The Sow

Published on:

#posts #poetry 



knows she is dying as colour drains
from her sty - rusted bolts bleed ruby,
grass and feed shudder like memory -
as if this present moment has already
evaporated. Breaths long, precious.

Now a spasm a contortion between shoulder blades a squeal as a nub something

sharp


something new forces its way out piercing tough bristles as piglets run to fences

as hollow bone spins out from air -
she lifts away from mud and straw,
the first time in days. Her cries
now ecstatic. Clouds twitch with static
potential. A prevalent taste of burnt solder.

Looking to the comfort of a monochrome sky,
she unclenches fresh sinew and 
     hovers
just above her trough, opens
translucent wings-
each feather containing all the sapphire 
all the emerald the world has lost
all the shimmer slick of a petrol spill
and she falls		

			up

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