The Runt

I was eight when I discovered death was jellied and sable, the bitch licked the still runt nudging it back to her womb. Through a lattice of fingers my Mother sobbed, half watching a bowl headed woman come with Ether and gloves uttering ‘Its only a runt dear’. She tried to take the runt, the Collie growled and snapped, it’s litter suckled her curd, eight kicking hinds moved the stillborn to gloves and grinning molars. To the Collie I walked, furring my challiced palm, she licked me leaving frothen eyes on my cheek. My Mother took me outside told me to wait in the car. I saw the bowl headed woman in a blue montage of sulphur lighting a furnace, unrolling the runt dousing it in parraffin then folding the blanket she kept. We left with four collies that day as the woman warmed her hands I remember my Mother carrying them and the runt was carried north by a growling wind of ash.