fat
crackles as the tea
steeps
and she tells stories
of
catching the blood from
a
stuck pig for
puddings,
the stream of it
making
a sort of music
against
the side of the
pail,
until she dropped it
as
we butter bread fine-sliced by
machines
and place shrink-wrapped
rashers
gingerly on the pan, they
sing
to us in a different
language,
our stories similar
but
dissimilar, the trading of
open
fields for closed
classrooms,
the curlew’s cry
for
the strut of city pigeons
*published in Florida English 14
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