Pig

Pig

He was a big pig,
ugly to some,
with a rough hide
and thick bristles.
When it was time
to slaughter him
you shot him
in the head
and he slumped
on the spot, thud.
Two of you
couldn’t move him
so you hung
a block and tackle
from a tree,
stuck a hook
under his jaw
and hauled him up.
You had to use
your 4-wheel drive
Toyota to lift him,
he was such a weight.
You gutted and hosed
him out and left him
hanging there all night.

I saw him swinging
slowly in the wind,
a stain in the dark,
heavy as grief.


from Beyond (John McIndoe, 1992), © Brian Turner 1992, used by permission of the author. Recording from the Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archives 2004.

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