The hog invited me to dinner.
I didn’t mind the bristles on his chinny-chin-chin.
And the truffles by candelight were a definite hit.
I hadn’t known the porcine heart was so similar to my own.
Is it true, I asked, that you eat your own kind? (I had witnessed it with my own eyes,
but wanted to hear him answer.) His wet snout trembled over the china rims, pink
and blind. You must think I am a monster! And dabbed a tear with scented linen.
When he did not come back to bed that night I knew something was wrong.
Tiptoeing down the cold halls I found an empty room where his body hung
from a hook, like a gorged tick. How he had climbed up there, and cut his own throat
I do not know. But the blood fell at my feet Like Roses.