Thinking of Meat

The thought of the sow,
dual-backboned
by the slow-turning axle of the spit,
down into the fire, leathering. Up
into the air, a tease of escape
then down. Makes you cry.
Makes you cry with its proximity,
the crackling
nuzzling your nostril.

The sow
like a record, like a juicy cog. Ringed
by knifing shouts. Queen of the pyre.
Here by the shore
the waves try to splash down their hollers,
schlurping our sand like dog tongues
looking for titbits. As we all are,
tums angry. Each of us
is bearing a beast.

We're hoping
that they'll come back, realise
that they are the silly boys.

They're up there now, warmed by stolen fire,
lit by the flashes from clear fat
oozing into the ash. They dance,
scissoring hot flesh with milk incisors,
smearing their paint
as haunches, nipples, ears all go in.
Into the dripping tunnels. We reach
for another bruised fruit.

We're hoping
that they'll come back, realise
that they are the silly little boys.