It’s the part of farming he despises,
which is why he leaves it to others.
On the day of the killing,
hired assassins come by
and he retreats into his parlor,
puts his hands over his ears.
One terrified scream from the nearby sty
and his leathery face would lose it.

His wife is braver,
peeling potatoes, slicing tomatoes,
in the kitchen,
careful not to slice her finger
while, just outside the window,
men, in blood-splattered aprons,
make quick work of a full-grown boar.

But she didn’t bring that creature
into the world.
She wasn’t there
when the old sow birthed him,
along with four brothers and sisters.

She tells him all the time
that he’s too sensitive.
But she never fattened up
a child for slaughter.
Her womb is innocent.
His hands are guilty.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review, and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Clade Song.