The Robert Watson Literary Prize Poem PIG THERAPIST

I find myself with a wide prospect of Iowa.
Everything here is easy
to say, difficult to imagine. A horizon
of corn that tastes like yellow
wallpaper, and such are the reeds
around lakes of excrement. I’m crying
at the beauty, the fertile smells, the fields
of dreams. Below, there is a pilgrimage
of pigs, from their galaxy of mud
to the consigning hug of thick metal
bars and the veiled entrance
of whatever may come. My beautiful view
is shaded by pig tears, sobs shaking
my green expanse, so I come down
to the march, take my place in their pens,
by their sides, and begin to console,
offer a sermon for their unchosen end.
Touch each crusted hoof.
We cannot blame others for their
wants, their needs. Nuzzle each
wet snout. We can find meaning in
purpose. Run fingers through
hairs on each chin. All we get to
choose is how we respond. I find
I am pretty good at preparing pigs
for death, and they are quiet while
plodding toward their short futures.
I never return to my life. This job smells
too sweet. Listen: all grunting stops,
there is only the sizzle of sun on
pink backs.