pigs
It’s the last day of National Poetry Month, and I find looking at a photograph can inspire. Here’s my last one for a while. Probably.
The old man carried piglets in his arms
under his armpits, actually
like two plump packages filled with
good things, they
squealed obediently, smelling
of earth and excrement, they
squealed curling and uncurling their
pink pig-tails, knowing
that the old farmer loved them
that a field of purple flowers was
waiting, patiently like a lover
the man walked many miles, or
what felt like many miles
(for what does a pig know
of distance
more than from sty to trough)
so he walked many miles, this man
setting one foot after the other, squish squash
squish squashing into the moistness
below his feet, and the pigs
snorted happily, short gruff grunts
as if they had just eaten a plate
full of scraps, short gruff grunts
confident that there would be lilacs
at the end of their journey, so sure
of his love, so sure of his love
he clutched them tightly around their middles
and they felt warm and safe
beneath the dark wool that made up his sweater
home, and they squealed
as he entered with them still
under his arms, still
not struggling, still believing
ever faithful
as he sliced off their heads
one, two
for his sweet sausage stew.
Have you ever experienced betrayal? Felt like someone was cutting your head off for their delight?
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