my grandfather castrated pigs as a child

he tells me this casual as bread  

when i bring up the book i’m writing  

some thirty odd years of talking   

and this is the first that information raises its head

and shakes the mud from it

his father, i learn, was a farmer outside

baltimore. summers he’d be tasked with slicing

into piglets how one de-pits an avocado—

excising the sweet meats, seizing

their means of reproduction

how many pigs did you castrate, grandpa?    

                                                              just a handful

and i picture hands the size of pastures

filled with castrato pigs singing opera oddly

                      wagner probably

my grandfather wears shirts with buttons,

is freudian by training, obsessed with the germans

their brutalist art

i can hardly imagine him scolding a dog—

how is it we are always where we’ve been

even when unaware of it?

one moment you’re drinking a cheap beer

in a velour jump suit and the next

you’re descendent of jewish pig farmers

what might i learn if i were to write

this book on an entirely different subject:

antique clock repair, the sex lives

of astronomers, joy