| The Pig Scramble
I ask her to tell my favorite story.
To tell me how she would catch
that pig.
Her dad said that cousin Paul
almost caught one
at the Addison County Fair.
Printing each letter with care, she slips her name into the slot.
Certain to be slyer, smarter,
she leans over the steel gate, and waits.
What were you wearing? I ask,
already interrupting
so I can place myself within her story.
I become the neighborhood girl, looking on,
swinging my curiosity like long braids.
I collect details until I can picture her stance
determined and lean. Last year’s Levis,
oil stains and holes from when they were Joel’s.
The three-quarter jersey, too tight, worn thin.
I can smell the onions, peppers, french fry shacks.
The manure, fresh and clean, she says
like fermented wheat.
Rehearsing her maneuvers,
she imagines the clang of a bell
and four young pigs dart into the pen,
a dozen kids, mostly farmers’ sons, close behind.
She would speed out, spectators cheering,
and slide knees first
toward that smooth pink swine,
grab its back legs as it squealed
like tires spinning in spring mud,
scrambling to her feet before the boys.
A respectable hero, she’d parade around the fair
with her prize,
bailing twine around the pig’s neck.
A Vermont rodeo.
She tells me her uncle won a dirtbike
on the 4th of July
because she said his name, Uncle Pete
UnclePeteUnclePeteUnclePete, until he won.
She begins repeating her name, fast
then slow
willing Mr. Morris to announce it
adding please God, please
even after
the last name is called.
I stop her again, this time to ask how,
exactly,
did she plan to keep that pig
from wriggling away? She laughs
and, before I persist, I am pinned
between her forearm and chest.
She says my breasts are softer
than the backside of April’s udder,
her child hood cow. Years ago
drinking fly-strained milk
straight from the jug,
reading Laura Ingalls Wilder,
rigging lawnmower motors to go-carts
gave her life meaning.
In a Buffalo suburb, I sat cross-legged
eating Kraft cheese slices
from cellophane wrappers,
watching Romper Room on TV,
waiting for my name to be called
through the Magic Mirror.
Voice dry, with the pride
of a ten-year old tomboy, she says
I would have caught that pig.
I kiss her forehead
and ask her to tell me her story
again.
Jen Matthews
Burlington, VT
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