Wild Pigs

Mr. Mullaney, I am a guest here

and cannot give you permission to kill

the pigs that upturn the yard every night

like puppies burying toys under the rug.

Whether it is with rifles or dogs,

in the daytime or night, this is not my place

to say yes, which I suppose is no.

You impressed me with your picture shot

by remote from a tree-mounted camera.

That is a big boar alright. And I sugared you

with questions about the meat, the spices thrown into

the Crock-Pot, which makes anything tender:

a nod to your broken mouth, a tarred

jumble, could be tobacco, could be worse.

But I cannot speak for the owner who lives in Atlanta.

I might have been frightened:

the screen door between us, hook and eye

at the top, hook and eye down below;

you in formal camo, a three-piece suit,

to my gown and bare feet. You looked away

when you said, I got permission from all

the neighbors out to Dixon’s farm, so don’t

you worry if you hear the dogs tonight

or my truck—you and the gun were implied.

Something must have passed then from me

to you through the screen door, hook and eye,

hook and eye: That sort of thing doesn’t happen

much around here, you said. What sort

of thing, Mr. Mullaney? And when it does

happen, what do you know about it?

Mr. Mullaney, what have you done?