The Pigs symbolize for me now the hell that was the year that just fell away a year now spent and in ruins dropped off like a golden husk dead cobra flesh summer sugared flakes of skin, torn with teeth from a wintered mouth
The Pigs were an omen on that day last January day of first blizzard and weather churn, sleet and howling, first day of white knuckles and prickling thighs, first day of numb chins and jowls, thick and gummy feeling against hands
dead and uncovered in the back of a grisly pickup truck The Pigs came into existence, piled ten feet high and fifteen long, bodies jutting stiff and macabre reaching for the sky, blank and indifferent.
I remember being disturbed by their enormous heads and the way the ice formed a crust over their bodies binding them one to another-snout to useless ***, milky underbelly to back creating not a pile but a mass. Somewhat globular.
I watched mesmerized by them in their sorrowful death bed, gliding over black ice down that empty leg of highway, black beautiful forests woven into color hungry sky and chalky fields on all sides devouring sound I felt numb and small on the back of that prairie stretch In my blacks and my wools, gut colored scarf around my throat Stuffed into my panting mouth Breath freezing to the yarn and to my lips Cold wet song escaping me -my protest against the freeze that held me Music about wolves against my ears-the haunting lyrics Stumbled upon by a man with ancient desires, the need for Animal blood, stone dwellings and strong women
This collage woven by the senses Became me in that moment For me a holy moment-every piece of me engaged and Acute Body clenched, mind awhirl, ears ringing, eyes filled with white
And then The Pigs whipped past me-in their resting place of crusted steel and chipping Paint, their eyes clenched like hundreds of tiny fists, Their mouths open and crookedly petrified around the last breath of their lifesong Their flesh as pink as the day they were born Their minds and organs preserved by the patient hands of Manitoba winter The smell of death was imagined then-I was Stricken by the harsh, wet scent of flesh Against the back of my throat it lingered for only a moment
In that moment I was complete
I blinked and The Pigs were beyond me-one hundred miles an hour to nowhere beautiful And I was left with a sense of awe and a thousand questions Death riding my thoughts Hand against my padded heart
I moved forward in time-caught my ride Which followed the tracks gouged by The ***** pick-up for a little while Something small and true stirring within me Protected beneath all of my meticulous layers A new awareness of something dark and curious in the world.