by Cindy Ellen Hill

The thread that makes the lace
is just
an ordinary thread,
spun by machine

white cotton
grown in Kazhakstan
its roots
long gone to feed the pigs

those snorting swine
with bristly hairs
devouring
white dangling lines
hanging from prickly stems
and drooping leaves

a harvester that dines on
diesel fuel
removes the boll
then combs and smooths
removes the small black seeds

it’s hot
a breeze soft-gently blows
through small-lovely patterned holes
across the dappled shade
of summer skin

strong hands still hold the knives
that slit the throats
of all those pigs

smoke swirls soft-relentlessly
across a searing sky

2025 Corrine Eastman Davis Memorial Award – Winner
Published in the 2025 Mountain Troubadour