Brother

The runt had been trampled and mud

clung as cloven hooves on his back.

He shivered as rainwater pooled and broke

repeatedly behind his ears. I watched

him push through a gap in the wooden fence.

Cradling him, we listened as piglets fought

over their mother’s teats, squeals rising like heat.

I carried him to his third family of the week

and dropped him into the pen. His departing breath

brief against my chest. A chinook wind opened a wound

in all of us. In the air above us the clouds

embraced each other in glorious but failing spells.

I stepped back and waited. How standing still

can become so violent. There are many kinds

of death. My mother says she regrets them all.

How naive I am to try to understand.