Eddie Leaves His Wife
Weekends he goes down
to the pig farm, pulls on
tall rubber boots where he left them
inside the barn door.
He can’t wait
to get out there with his pigs,
pockets full of Oreos.
(He knows from the county fair
what makes pigs run.)
Rain or shine he loves
the grunts and snorts, the suck
of old boots in the mud,
the wallow of sow flesh.
When the wind veers hard
from the north, he sees her
glowering in the clouds,
feels her cold fire eyes.
He turns up his collar, turns
to the pigs. The young ones, sleek
as rockets, come alongside him,
fill his lungs with a smell
that keeps him pressed against the fence.
He dips into his pocket. The pigs
crowd and snuffle, nudge his boots.
He could stand forever like this,
the tough wire fence swaying
to the weight of the big mother pig
who holds the ground steady
as far as he can see.
Jean Tucker teaches English as a Second
Language at Jefferson Community and