I come from the slaughterhouse.
From the boar-tainted
blood stained
two car garage
where a skinned pig
hangs by bound hooves
her squeals still echoing down the valley.
But I wasn’t stained by blood.
My white flesh remained pure
and I built friendships on oaths
written with crow feather quills
and ink from that pig’s severed head
that I turn towards the sky
because pigs can’t ever see it
when they are alive.
I didn’t adopt the eyes of a killer
but the eyes of the killed
begging for mercy
for gentleness.
I carry in my own sockets
the eyes of my baby goat
who was too small to fight.
The eyes of a promise
that I’ll get you in the next life.
I come from the slaughterhouse
and the creek that runs through it
from the dusty woods lined with wild strawberry
where angels lie awake at night
preparing their stories for the coming day.
About the Author
Beatrix Kelly was raised in Winlaw, British Columbia on a small farm. Her parents owned a restaurant where she spent her time helping her mom in the kitchen, or running around the woods. For middle school and high school, she lived in Nelson, where she discovered her love for reading. She will never pass up a good story. She works at a French bakery and hopes to one day become an English teacher.
