Strip Disco | A. Williams
The stunned hog bouncing limply in his arms,
he followed his father on frozen grass to the shed, scraped loose
scurf off naked skin and blood, and waited on the floor of the shed
for the meat to cool while the carcass dangled serenely
from the rafters and steamed beside the caldron. He tied
its legs up in suspension to spin like a silver ball. The soul
of the wild thing oozed out from its ears into the fire.
Distant cousins served slices on platters at his father’s
third wedding, the stench singed in cold air. It stung.
He gripped the pork with slimy fingers and gnawed
noisily away at shreds ground between yellow teeth.
Night oozed over high windows, washing black on
barn walls and a girl’s loose dress whose hips twirled to
slow disco beneath the distant gaze of the boy—still
hunting like his father. He waited on the floor after-hours
and watched her spin like a silver ball. At closing, he offered her
liquor like scrap in a trough and carried her out to quiet fields,
the stoned girl bouncing limply in his arms.
A. Williams has appeared extensively in Elan Literary Magazine and has received Gold Key for poetry and creative nonfiction in the Scholastic Art & Writing Competition. She is currently a student of literary fiction and poetry at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts.