It’s wonderful how I jog
on four honed-down ivory
toes
my massive buttocks slipping
like oiled parts with each
light step.
I’m to market. I can smell
the sour, grooved block, I
can smell
the blade that opens the
hole
and the pudgy white fingers
that shake out the
intestines
like a hankie. In my dreams
the snouts drool on the
marble,
suffering children,
suffering flies,
suffering the consumers
who won’t meet their steady
eyes
for fear they could see. The
boy
who drives me along believes
that any moment I’ll fall
on my side and drum my toes
like a typewriter or squeal
and shit like a new
housewife
discovering television,
or that I’ll turn like a
beast
cleverly to hook his teeth
with my teeth. No. Not this
pig.
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