The day the fox staggered into the barn
my father didn’t own a gun,
his whole life, a pacifist, with no desire
to harm, or hunt, or defend with force.
At the time, I saw this as a failure of
character, as a listless boat floating
without hope of shore, hated his inability
to kill, to watch his entire barn infected,
months of quarantine, the durocs fattening
to a measure that made them a loss,
their feed exceeding pork prices,
until winter’s claim, the puddles froze
like stained glass that we stomped,
slaughterhouse scene, Carracci’s butchery,
hung from hooves like neckties,
neck-slit during their exasperated culling.
— ART MOORE
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