The Runt — a poem

As a girl, I caught shooting stars on my tongue, 
swallowing wishes as my mom washed my hair
sitting between her legs on the porch.  
We waited till it rained,
but my mother could never tolerate a balloon.

I befriended pigs and chickens,
forced hens to tell me the truth
as I shrank to the size of a pea,
sleeping in their families' nest.
Hoping they'd let me stay or swallow me like a shooting star,
wish for freedom, tolerate a balloon.

Until a miasma of despair woke me:
Outside, a mother pig's glands were swollen with milk
as a runt was carried away, screaming for momma.
Frankie slaughtered the runt with a dull ax
and fed it bloody and raw to his dogs.

No place for tears, I sharpened the ax,
still bloody from the last runt,
I cut off my own tail.
Maybe now I could eat bullets rather than swallow wishes,
like how my brother carries foxes in quart berry baskets
and how my stepdad molests screws in the barn.

Still, no one can tolerate a balloon. 

This nonsensical intelligence test prompted poem was originally published in Issue 13 of The Gold Mine.