United States, (b. 1952)
LIFE PIG
- The hams the hocks the oddly delicate
- little busy trotters
- dug in and pushing forward through the already grunted through
- wet stink of what’s been rooted up and chewed and
- gobbled down to be shit
- out in clumps and dribbles to be again ploughed
- through like a harrow back
- and forth across the pen for more and still more
- scraps shreds fumes bacterial hints of fumes to feed on
- so the hunger can keep feeding till
- at last the head lifts up
- defiant nostrils pulsing wide
- as if to suck in the even bigger pig of sun
- which as it eats is glistening
- inside the darkest beads and beadlets hanging from
- the tip of every bristle on the snout.
THE PIG
- The 1950s of her dream persisted
- Into the 1960s,
- Confident at first,
- Despite the first awakenings around it,
- Even a little smug,
- Unthreatened, but then as more and more awoke
- It grew confused, mystified, furious,
- Retreating to a last redoubt-
- Part farce,
- Part suicide mission-
- Of her wanting us
- Never to help her with what she did alone
- While wanting everyone of us
- To see her do it every evening
- As her fork scraped uneaten scraps
- Down the hole of the disposal
- That she called the pig
- And flipped the switch
- To hear it churn
- All she’d done for us
- To nothing,
- The dishes scoured and sparkling on the rack,
- The table scrubbed to chilly radiance,
- The floor swept,
- She never wanting us, not once, not
- Ever, to help her do it,
- Not even on the nights she herself refused to do it,
- Had had enough
- Already and would sit there
- At the bomb site of the table,
- Cigarette burning down between her fingers,
- Untouched cup of coffee steaming
- Till it didn’t,
- She wanting us to see her stare at nothing, see
- Her not care if we saw
- How she had gone away
- Like food scraps down the pig
- Of nowhere we could follow
- Where the dream churned
- On itself down through the void
- Of its persistence
- Among the wreckage all the waking up had wrought.
DEATH HOG
- Maw of the breeding mud
- of the barnyard of the planet
- in a paradise of being fed
- by bodies gobbling
- bodies while it wallows
- at the bottom of it all,
- at all times belly up-
- deaf, dumb, and blind,
- a sinkhole
- of a massive infinitesimal
- infant-sucking
- growing emptier
- the more it fills, the more
- we fill it, squawking
- scratching pecking
- at the dirt we sink into
- for any morsel of why,
- any gorgeous hogwash
- of a crumb to prettify
- or hide or just prolong
- the sinking-too hungry
- to find it, or to see how,
- when we do
- find it, swallowing
- whole some notion
- that it’s the lion’s
- claw and tiger’s tooth
- that have given
- the deer its grace
- and beauty and speed,
- we sink the same, even
- as we swallow.
- Even then it feeds.
In “Death Hog’ Shapiro notes that the sentence “it’s the lion’s claw and tiger’s tooth that have given the deer its grace and beauty and speed” is from
Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire (1968).
About the Poet:
Alan Richard Shapiro, United States, (b. 1952), is a poet and educator. Since 1995, Shapiro has taught at the University of North Carolina, where he currently serves as the William R. Kenan Jr. Distinguished Professor of English and Creative Writing.
Shapiro has published over ten books of poetry, most recently Life Pig (2016); Reel to Reel (2014), a finalist for the Pulizer Prize; Night of the Republic (2012), a finalist for the National Book Award and the Griffin Prize; and Old War (2008), winner of the Ambassador Book Award. In addition to poetry, he has also published two personal memoirs, Vigil and The Last Happy Occasion. [DES-11/19]