Written by Trini Rogando

“Here, struck down by the heat, the sow fell and the hunters hurled themselves at her…she squealed and bucked and the air was full of sweat and noise and blood and terror.”
(Lord of the Flies, William Golding)

Consider the butcher,
his glinting tools of teeth
and tongue a pointed scythe.

Clipped words,
                   slaughtered prayers.
Pieced injustice to swallow, dribbling,
slicking the scar of my pork throat.
He laughs in salt Latin and gibberish made
dysphagic, divine hunger leaping into
this mirrored mouth. This impious communion.

Rendered a bloated island,
                   Push me; I’d swim to sink.
My chaste children lost but perhaps
I am the orphan. Divorced from
sea and sky and life. Consigned to 
scraps of sunbeam in a matted jungle.

I squint at murmurs carved in the cleaver:
                   the honeyed worship that men claim to slice
over my trembling form. Who would have guessed
the piglet would grow to be beautiful.
Her weight measured in her sagging belly.
Her stretched skin and sunken cheeks.

Sinfully I wish to bend the spear
                   to roll within skinned pages and
salivate my slit womanhood into prose.
Who decided the butcher was God.
The Lord is dirty and buzzing with flies.
I am more deserving, fattened with filth. 
Half of me revels in disgust, the other snarls.

All pig brains are split double, 
soul cleaved by pen and knife.
Two mouths, in chorus, both silent.

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