30 October 2014

Blood Pudding

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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