I woke, terrified, at the tumult of riots
and blood flowing through these once-quiet fields
and guillotines erected in squares
which never yet had seen an execution.
The scorched earth left
you gutted as a bisected sow
on fiesta morning–
supine on the wood bench, spine
dangling like a braid of china filaments.
Dad tucked his tail and ran;
Octavio hid with the spooked hooves
in the sugar cane. The perpetrators garroted our carabao
and any hope for a harvest
bountiful enough to bring mom back.
Now the farm is a handful of dust.