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CHORUS OF ANIMALS
by Tom Healy

And on that farm, the pitch
and fever of pigs singing,
cut by the crack and the thud
of a .22 pistol when we shot and
slit them, boiled them in barrels.

Here a warble, there a hiss
of geese davening in the yard,
chasing dogs, pinching children
until we snapped their necks
and stacked them in a freezer.

Here a whimper, there a wailing
of cats begging milk,
coiled, wild and frightened,
stuffed in feedbags
and drowned in the pond.

Here a bellow, there a moan
arthritic yellow cows,
dry, too old, pushed
and dragged to a truck
to the dog food factory.

And on the farm,
an auctioneer comes chanting
Ee—i—ee—i—o.
Here, there, a story abandoned—
tractors, all the animals, the sofa, the car.

And on that farm,
a family broken in empty June,
here, there,
no one singing
Ee—i—ee—i—o.