A Preponderance of Pig Poems

Happy Labor Day weekend! I’m on staycation this week, and I’m using the time to putter and catch up on my reading and get the rest of my novel written. So far, so good--I burned most of yesterday re-playing Tomb Raider and nomming on chips. It was awesome. 

I don't feel like writing a proper blog post on staycation, so to tide you over, here are some poems I wrote a few years ago. I went through a stage where I was fascinated with pigs and pig mythology, and had grand plans to write an entire chapbook on the subject. Some of the poems made their way into "Triplicity", but the pig-themed chapbook never panned out, and most of the poems have been lounging un-submitted in my “Pigs Series” folder. If you like these, I might pick up the series again in the future and get that chapbook out after all. 

Plum Song

I.                  Field Notes from the Herd

Each night under the lusterless moon

She slices a plum eight ways.

With each nibble, she owes herself

punishment, a rough pinch on her concave belly.

what flesh she wears is negligible;

We feel the welts ourselves.

She suckles juice from each violet grin.

She does not hold

Her offering to the sky,

Or think to toss us the pits.

Her hands tremble. She will not lick clean the plate,

But carries it inside, her face

a dying orchid in it’s cold flat depths.

II.               Before Swine

Mornings I stand before swine,

my clean hair rising on the wind,

that they may catch

the scent of soap and sacrifice.

I wear white to teach them propriety.

I’m told they have some sense of

order despite their vagrant snouts, their

promiscuous bellies that  assimilate

our slop with greedy ardor. I myself

eat only plum.  Every morning, my

bones swim closer. Soon,

they will break the surface.

Soon my skin will toughen like silk, will need

nothing from the layers come before.

Solace

Oh Heavenly Sow who births

your young at twilight, who suckles them

throughout the night and gorges

mornings on their warm

star bodies,

Oh Mother Sow, who offers

solace to the dead, who does not

fear their flesh,

who are we to believe

that we can save the earth?

Who are we to trust

we shall usher in eternity

with our meager offerings

of cans and compost?

Who are we to refuse

the eating of your flesh,

to deny ourselves

incorporation, to call ourselves

holy in this way?

Oh, Heavenly sow,

You whose children are born

for endless sacrifice,

show us the mysteries

of death and consumption.

Show us our distant,

suspended bodies.

How to Hunt A Wild Boar

Gather the stealthy, fleet-footed girls

starved for their share of dominion.

Lend them the catch-dog and the butcher’s blade.

Turn them downwind of the quarry, and set them

on the savage hunt, for you

have been observant all this time

and oh, how method

offers dividends: boar falls to dog,

blade to artery, blood to soil, meat

to the mouths of the ravenous.

--Kristen McHenry