The bright pig grunts, a raw star burns its hoof. Digs the back yard where my grandfather cursed and peeled oranges in the hot afternoons. The squealing beasts blunted by the fresh dirt. Stones in buckets of rain steal throaty sparks. Roots of upturned trees gouge the air where the snorting of hideous fire-giraffes blast the smoldering peat.
Green mules play black-dirt poker.
I eat dogs torn from the sky while they howl in my arms. Mother, I said, behold your son. And it began to rain blood.