A Parable
Paul Ragonese
A Parable
All growing up, we’d pick our favorite pigs Each time a litter came. Throughout the day, We’d toss in ears of corn, or squash, whatever We found to give them. “Mine’s the tantony,” I’d say, and wait to feed her anything Until the others laid down far enough Away. “Mine is named Patch,” you’d say, and point Across the pen to one whose whole back half Was black, beside a spot of pink above The curling tail. We never thought to show Our pigs—it wasn’t pride we felt toward them, But something like familiarity. When we were very young, the pigs, one day, Would simply disappear. If we had been A generation older, we’d have seen Our father leave the house and make his way Around the barn, an axe in hand. But we Were grandkids, and were, somehow, always elsewhere When all the pigs were loaded up and sent Out to the butcher. Soon enough, a new And cuter litter waited for us in The pen. I’d choose the runt again and you Would single out a pig with features you Could recognize. The pattern would repeat Itself like this, routine as time itself. As we got older, it became our job To feed the pigs. We’d fill the trough with grain And haul in husks, we’d treat the pipes in winter To make sure water flowed, we’d track their weight And recommend their timing to the butcher. We still had favorites, but we got to know Them all, looking for signs of sickness in Their habits. You would step inside the pen And rub their bellies, look them in the eyes, And tell me this was what you’d spend your whole Life doing. I would laugh and call you crazy. “No one,” I’d say, “devotes their life to pigs.” The farm was sold to neighbors who raised chickens When grandpa died, a consolation that They’d keep the barn and acres operating. You grieved the loss like no one else and said That someday you would buy it back. Your pearl Beyond all price, you’d say, your treasure buried Under a field. I said that it was more Akin to Ahab’s whale, half-joking but Still hoping you would redirect yourself And find a higher calling. I moved away For school and soon our childhood became Quaint stories I would tell with mixed disdain And fondness; and the pigs were no exception. This morning, after many years away, I stood there next to you, deciding on A favorite pig—the tantony, of course— While you teased endlessly how childish I was, that is, before admitting you Had chosen yesterday. You climbed on in And rubbed their bellies as I tossed in scraps. At lunch, you served up ham and joked with me About the ironies of raising pigs. I said that you had caught your whale, but you Insisted you had found your pearl. Instead, I ventured, maybe I had been a prodigal Who needed the humility of coming home.
Paul Ragonese is a recent MFA graduate from the University of St. Thomas, Houston. He has been published in the Eastern Pennsylvania Poetry Review, the MSU Roadrunner Review, where he received a Pushcart nomination, and has a poem forthcoming in Colosseum. Paul grew up farming in rural Western New York. He and his wife now live in Jenkintown, PA.