Skewered and spinning over hot coals, glowing fluorescent.
It didn’t seem right to call the boar wild anymore.
He had been tamed. Sharp tusks protruding from a lower jaw
evolution intended to be a weapon. But what good is evolution
when it provides the human species such an appetite for conquest?
The head, I thought, belonged on a wall— beside a family portrait.
The pig slayer, blowing black cigar smoke over the faces he loved
and stomachs he fed.
One is only truly wild so long as it never meets the barrier—
which pens it in; Like a poem anticipating the bottom of a page;
Or the wild boar meeting civilization after the forest is cleared
and the men with muskets roam in, feasting their feral spirits.
I felt a deep sympathy for that pig— which died to feed me
and the men, now, pounding metal forks and knives.
I watched the body shrivel, a rod shoved anus to mouth, spiraling.
Flesh quivering, swelling red, and sweating yellow fat into the fire.
Men shook hands, clanging glass bottles and belching their contents.
I watched his body carved by steel as I poked at the rib on my plate.
Someone began praying and in an instant, the long table fell silent.
I thought of the crucifixion and how different this ceremony of meat
might be had the Romans decided to hang Christ, anus to mouth.
“GRACE!” interrupted my fantasy and I went back to picking his rib.
I never tasted a better pig.*
*Not to say there was not grizzle or other parts difficult to chew.