The Shed by Alice Langston

Wood and electric wire
separated the yard from the pigs,
but the gate beckoned.
We peered through its slats, two pairs of eyes,
one pair green one pair blue.
Pigs lay like alligators, submerged in mud,
ears twitching, lids closed.

Without words, Sister and I entered the forbidden ground,
tip-toed to a shed latched with a swiveling board.
Opened the door and swung it wide...
stacked high and deep were ears, feet, and snouts.

Dumbstruck! We stood bug-eyed...
neither of us able to emit the tiniest of sounds.
In unison, we peeked around the outside of the shed-
in search of pink bodies.

Minutes later, deep into the afternoon sun,
cool water pours from the spigot, orange,
tasting like the dust of the gravel road
that billows thick from around
and behind the passing truck. The driver
sounds his horn and gives a wave.

Tucked safely under the shade of the hickory tree,
a pact of silence made, Sister returns the driverís wave.
Clutched in dirty hands, tumbler of colored tin
collects condensation. Droplets of muddied water,
drip down chins and arms.

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