The man tasted good
But his wife objected
And so, he returned to eating
Butterflies and leafy stems,
And drinking muddy water
Instead of warm, salty blood.
When the pig slept that night,
He dreamed of the man
Diving out of a green
Sky, head on fire, spreading waves
Of blue hearted flames.
The pig woke up his wife,
Told her his terrible dream.
Darling, you got it right.
I had no right to eat the man
Even if his kind eats us.
In the morning, the pig
Snouted the ground in search
Of truffles. Why they taste
Better than any man, anyway.
And don’t carry diseases.
And the pig avoided man,
Until he arrived with a cocked gun,
His glittery butcher’s knife.
All the forest insects went silent,
When the shots exploded.
On the killing floor,
Machines chopped the pig up, sliced
Him into convenient pieces.
What was left over grounded down,
Mixed with spices, packaged.
I feel some part of him
that no sledgehammer
To the head, or a knife
To the heart, or a bullet to the brain
Can touch, his wife said.
Even now I see him flying, out
Of the darkness, dividing
Clouds, bound for the sun,
No hatred, or self-pity,
And no worry, or fear.
I cannot say the same for man.
Mario Duarte is a Mexican American writer and an Iowa Writers’ Workshop graduate. His work has appeared in Bowery Gothic, Eucalyptus Lit, Jake, Mersey Review, among others. He is the author of a poetry collection, To the Death of the Author, and a short story collection, My Father Called Us Monkeys.
