Renee Good wrote a poem
about dissecting fetal pigs—
but not really.
It’s about Bibles being donated and zealots. About putrid smells and salt and ink.
About finding the pancreas
and the tercet sounds of cicadas.
About finding her soul.
It’s about “making room for wonder.”
About her mother moving a slip of hair
behind her ear and getting down to the truth—
That life is merely
the meeting of **** and *****
“And what dies there.”
The bibles are now half-price.
The sticky smells are her drying blood
on her slip of hair tucked behind her ear.
Four, point-blank bullets
sent her soul flying.
Her last words were “I’m not mad at you”
before her mouth filled with salt and ink.
She had no chance to bid farewell
to her **** and *****
playing warm at home.
But a light is shining on the Minnesota snow
and I hope she can see
the ICE melting.
Jan 11
Jan 11, 2026 at 10:42 PM UTC
Renee Good wrote a poem
about dissecting fetal pigs—
but not really.
It’s about Bibles being donated and zealots. About putrid smells and salt and ink.
About finding the pancreas
and the tercet sounds of cicadas.
About finding her soul.
It’s about “making room for wonder.”
About her mother moving a slip of hair
behind her ear and getting down to the truth—
That life is merely
the meeting of **** and *****
“And what dies there.”
The bibles are now half-price.
The sticky smells are her drying blood
on her slip of hair tucked behind her ear.
Four, point-blank bullets
sent her soul flying.
Her last words were “I’m not mad at you”
before her mouth filled with salt and ink.
She had no chance to bid farewell
to her **** and *****
playing warm at home.
But a light is shining on the Minnesota snow
and I hope she can see
the ICE melting.
Inspired by her poem:
https://lithub.com/renee-nicole-good-murdered-by-ice-was-a-prize-winning-poet-heres-that-poem/