Waterman, Cary

After the Pig Butchering

“What does the pig think of the dawn?
They do not sing but they hold it up.”

— Pablo Neruda

1. I go back two days later
2. for the skin.
3. It is dismal weather.
4. The floor of the shed is wet
5. where blood mingles with the red paint
6. and the dark soft manure.
7. It is a watercolor of confusion and pain:
8. of the loss of a piece of thought.
9. The feeding pans are in chaos,
10. tipped like crazy men around the corners.
11.  
12. I have gone back to pick up the skin.
13. We left the entrails to droop in a compost heap.
14. I see them sinking like heat into the ground.
15. I know parts of them are ovaries.
16. And there are two blue-lipped stomachs
17. that seem to smile at me.
18. The skin is on the roof of the shed.
19.  
20. Carrying it I can tell that it weighs
21. about as much as my five year old son.
22. It is solid like a head against my breasts.
23. I begin to like carrying it and squeeze it closer,
24. rub my cheek into it,
25. and touch the taut nipples.
26. They are watchtowers
27. on both sides of the river we cut open.
28. I am bringing it home.
29.  
30. Now the smell is on me;
31. grease on my hands.
32. I bring it all into my house.
33. It slides around the doors,
34. under the beds.
35. It is pungent
36. and obsessive.

Pig Poem

1. The pig’s ears blossom and fold
2. like lush jungle lilies.
3. It is their only attractive feature
4. except for their shell shaped feet
5. that try to escape each night into the creek.
6.  
7. Each pig roots under the Prickly Ash,
8. undermines the foundation of the sauna,
9. and buries all cloths left lying around.
10. They are the fat of my existence,
11. a greasy black skillet.
12.  
13. The Dani of New Guinea have lived forever
14. on pigs and sweet potatoes.
15. They have never been Christianized.