Peter Thabit Jones
I sat on a wall in Grafog Lane
I sat on the wall in Grafog Lane. The Cajo brothers’ van blocked the bottom entrance. The back doors of the van were open. I watched as they herded the pigs out of the farm and down the rough path. A river of dirty pink squealed down Grafog Lane. The smell of the sties filled the marrow corridor. Some pigs looked up and sniffed. Their albino eyes measured my flesh. I gripped the wall as they were forced up the ramp and into the van. The doors were closed on an army of ambushed squeals. The van growled into action and the Cajos drove of f. I remained on the wall. The silence in the Lane was deadly.
Page(s) 125
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