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 Pigs and Wings It’s not the “oink, oink” you read about in children’s books but a claustrophobic scream that pigs let out, with a sisal rope pulling at their neck and cutting in— nothing for their thirst, nothing for their terror—even if what they lose and leave behind is an imbedded smell of piss, a mud hole which eroded their skin, their piglets long gone, the only color around is from the soiled spiral of an orange peel. The chicken coop rots in the back corner where, in days of my childhood, God, for me, had a yellow beak, unblinking round eyes, flapping red wings, and was willing to hide and protect me, all tucked and belly-down in the shit. Later on, when I sat in churches, Saints also seemed powerful. I wished, however, not for miracles but for angels’ wings. How much? Why here? How long?— these questions I kept asking myself, still do. ...

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