my grandfather castrated pigs as a childhe tells me this casual as breadwhen i bring up the book i’m writing
some thirty odd years of talkingand this is the first that information raises its headand shakes the mud from it
his father, i learn, was a farmer outsidebaltimore. summers he’d be tasked with slicinginto piglets how one de-pits an avocado—
excising the sweet meats, seizingtheir means of reproduction
how many pigs did you castrate, grandpa?just a handful
and i picture hands the size of pasturesfilled with castrato pigs singing opera oddlywagner probably
my grandfather wears shirts with buttons,is freudian by training, obsessed with the germanstheir brutalist art
i can hardly imagine him scolding a dog—
how is it we are always where we’ve beeneven when unaware of it?
one moment you’re drinking a cheap beerin a velour jump suit…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2023