Frech, Stephen

United States, (b. 1969)

The Hog

Tired by the sheer size of himself,
mountainous, rough, the hog dropped
across the doorway, hoof-bound, footsore,
docile now from the struggle that sweetens meat.
The children poked him with sticks
to see if he was spent. When even a snort
was too much for him, the children crept closer
to touch with one finger, a whole hand,
and then, emboldened by their risk, the hot,
foul smell of his skin, to stand on this tired lump.
His breathing raised them, then dropped them.
Twenty minutes at least before the beast recovers
and, by then, the father will have opened
one of its veins.
With the hog drawn, hung-up, and draining,
the father opens the belly with a heavy cleaver
and, among the warm sacks and globes, his hand
finds the bladder and cuts it out.
He drains it, passes it to his children
who will blow it up and tie both ends
or fill it with chrysanthemum water.
The juice will taste that much sweeter
because they know where the sack came from
and it was promised to them
when they and the hog were about the same size.

Sell-Portrait with Saskia: The Prodigal Son in the Tavern

Why reduce myself to rags,
my rags of clothing to a last patch of modesty?
Frayed by the dog who tore at my sleeve,
confused by the first worn and tired vision
I saw of myself in a pool,
even picking gravel from under the skin of my knees,
I would still remember the coins
jangling in my purse, the price
good tobacco commands, and the cloud of it
whorling in my lungs and in my head.
Why must I paint myself as the Prodigal Son
returned shabby and repentant?
Even reduced to eating swine-meal,
having to kick the snouts away,
I would’ still relish in what passes my lips,
hunger for more than what I have.
Repentance, then, is bad fortune, hardship,
and longing.
I fatten my dry lip to split it,
hold the sweet tobacco on that crack.
The leaf burns at first, but eases me into numbness.
I smolder with the pipe and everything I’ve held
just so in my teeth: jeweled scimitars,
draw-strings, cork stoppers, lacing, nipples.
I’ve painted myself in the tavern with a woman
who lets me touch her and a glass of wine
so tall, it exceeds the length of my arm
from elbow to finger-tip.
I’ll ignore the lightness of it all and the winds.
picking up – I know how this story ends
and the good father will forgive me.

About the Poet:

Stephen Frech, United States, (b. 1969) is a poet and educator. Frech is an Associate Professor of English at Millikin University, Decatur, IL. He is also the founder and editor of Oneiros Press, publisher of limited edition, letterpress poetry broadsides. [DES-07/19]

Additional information:

Personal website of Stephen Frech
More information on Oneiros Press can be found here and here.
Stephen Frech at Millikin University
Rembrandt – The Prodigal Son in the Tavern