The Fog
a poem from Mark Farrell
The fog disperses – exposing: me.
Oh! I’ve been found out – all the other little piggies having stayed home or gone to
mar-ket…
The
wolves
surround.
(gulp)
Then:
my entrails streak red – a slash of
red paint on a brand new wall – or a train shooting down the rails of a dusty,
empty
land.
The night has been long.
But this morning
of death
–longer.
The flowers, shyly, a bit frightened even, unfold upon the meadow – watching me –
watching me quiver.
The little flowers beam (so happily!) – their thrilled little hearts (knocking!). Such butchery will never happen to them, they know.
And,
the night comes again.
The willows, at least, begin to weep.
(and the pines, they
pine).
The other piggies must all have their clean bedclothes on by now.
And if they drag Piggy Lake they will find my carcass.
My wishes were unfulfilled. I’d like that recorded – written down.
The water is dark with blood (my blood) and with self pity (mine).
Self-Piggy-Pity.
The smell of fresh guts on the wind is sweet.
The taste of fresh guts in a wolf’s mouth is sweet.
The sound of a scream is echoed in the unfolding of flowers. Horribly.
Sweet.
Mark Farrell is a Canadian from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia who has been living in the Czech Republic for over fifteen years. He teaches at Charles University in Prague. His other poem in Issue 1, “Poetry Slam,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.