Pigs (Corunna, 1954, for Emily)

I was near the top of the silo when the trapdoor tipped
and I knew my sister had plunged
where the pigs were kept.
I don't remember how it was that I got there.

Pigs stood around,
startled at her sudden appearance and her glasses gone.
Her forehead was covered with blood
and she lay there stunned,
awaiting the execution which might have come
had I been longer in the coming.

I grabbed her up and ran from the barn for the house. 
There we cleaned the mud from her arms and legs (and the blood),
then to the doctor
who sewed up the gash by her eye (she had hit a rafter
where someone had hammered a nail)
then held her wrist
and with a syringe shot pain killer in.

It is now moot,
but part of the truth of that day is my legs gave way,
bent even as the needle was bent,
was again pulled out,
bent again like the pole of a vaulter.

Much more than blood
that needle made clear with its thrusts how much love costs
when experience is compounded with fear
and eyes that trust
beyond anything more you can do,

so that born in sin,
you live over and over again how intent is lost, 
suddenly and without any thought
when brute force horns in.