The pig recurs
pealing like a mournful fiddle
it feels good to hear

and know that in the heart of him
the fiddler's got that reel
that anguish pounding

and just meant to be tapped
into. And like a long-dead
fiddler did, before he ripped

off one last dirge that was your life
the pig lifts its chin
and squints its eye as if to say

If you wait, it goes away.











From Poetry Magazine Vol. 187, no. 6, March 2006 used with permission