Register Saturday | March 17 | 2018



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.