There’s mornings where the hog hangs high

When the ice melts back and the savory stench of hope sweeps my nostrils

Where the past is dead, and the future non existent

There’s no blood, no dread, no putrid sobs for the present

These mornings are nicer than others, when the hog is all slaughtered

When I’m unable to learn, and only dwelling on all I’ve taught her.

Flesh torn, guts mangled. The thrashing teeth of wolves leaving not even a throat to strangle.

Where has my hog gone? The morning fog is so thick. Why was I so wrong? I smell not hope, only the burning globs of my sick.

Where is my hog, where is my comfort? On the mornings when the ice stays frozen I sop it’s gushing and wonder.