Survival

September means time to slaughter the pigs. The old sow had bore him many. He fastens her hooves and makes it quick. After, we burn the carcass and scrape the hair. The crackle of pigskin attracts the chickens who come to feed on what we waste, which is always very little. Early that morning I remember the smell of the cold fall rain writing its name in the dust. The water washes her hemorrhage back into the crevices of earth. The ice truck pulls up to the gate; it goes unannounced by the dog, who is too busy to bark, harboring the sow’s ear between his teeth.