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 had tucked his tail and run;
Octavio was hiding with the spooked hooves
in the sugar cane. The perpetrators had garroted our carabao
and any hope for a harvest
bountiful enough to bring mom back.
Now the farm is a handful of dust.
I wrote this as part of my final portfolio in grad school. It’s not as perfect as I want it to be, but I figure I should start showcasing my own work on here at some point…
Thanks ahead of time for any feedback 🙂