In the small kitchen, the hog’s head weaves
the gamey scent of death throughout the house.
My grandmother scrapes black hair
from the hog’s pink head with the
sharp blade of her butcher knife. I ask
her about my mother;
I always ask her about my mother. I play
paper dolls under a Formica table with
pearls around my neck & pink lipstick
from my mother’s treasure chest.
My grandmother places the head into the tub & i watch
her hands, wait for her to tell me where my mother’s gone.
My grandmother fills the tub with water.
I hate that she always reminds me of all she’s done for
love. Remember. Remember. Hair. Face. Knife.
She lifts the heavy tub & situates the hog upon
the stove covering all the burners & turns on all the eyes

I’m convinced that if you could
have seen my grandmother
standing in the doorway
waiting for him to come home from the fields,
if you’d smelled that spectacular evening thick
with sweat & felt the pulsing of the stars, if
you’d borne witness
to the animals’ moans echoing in the holler
that night, if you just could have seen the
hair rise up
on granddaddy’s arm like that, like
offerings to god, when his elbow touched
hers, if you could have seen
her longing dissipate just a little as he came
through the door smelling like a day’s work, you
should have seen them close enough to breathe
the same air while not even touching.
(He smiled at her without smiling.) If you could
have seen them watching me watch them, then
you’d know how much i love you. If you could
have heard her say, You want some supper?
We got pie.