Pigs drink from the same lake as dogs.
My mother was brave.
I often wonder how many drugs she put inside herself.
How she could throw her body on the piles.
She let my father fuck her on the sands of summer beaches.
My mother’s body was a dream catcher.
I was fucked to life on Halloween night.
She stretched out her hands in the shape of a cup, turned
to my father: This is where your sun will live.
This is where the wet mouths of the earth will bury him.
Over the scratched bone of our fingers, his clothes will shatter.
You are his father now until the day you die.
When you die, a little piece of me will also die.
The space in these palms will smoulder in the ash of your body.
On special occasions, we eat pork. My mother eats my father
and my father eats my brother and my sister eats
the brown mess just below the meat.
I was born despite their greatest will to save me.
They should have cut his cock to size, shaved it down like gun metal.
Pigs breathe in the same air as people.
We crash into their flesh like a highway into a rock-face.
When I came out of the hole they held me over bathwater.
My father rolled up his sleeves in heat. My mother opened her
hands: Be brave with me.
I was a bullet through the target of chaos.