I’ll tell you my poem about killing a pig

I was sent home when they had it planned,
to get on the dinner, boil the ham
while they slit its throat, not a pig at all
but the fiesty ram. The squeal of him
in the kill shed, a warm arc of blood
over their heads. They came up the lane
when he was dead and always forgot I
was not there, the story never mine to tell
because I’m a girl and girls don’t kill.