The coconut trunk I left for dead has hollowed itself to
The rhythm of white ants, leaving a shell of pale earth
Mimicking the mud on swine as the sun beckons who
Loves me after the rain with a bowl of mais to the heath
We guzzle our morning meal then play rooting searching
Turning over the vegetation until we are tired, the ground
Breathes and our breasts heave of excitement, tickling
Our bellies with scrubs, there is a dark fellow the sound
Of his voice scrapes the skin on my arms because he has
A knife I fear him for you are sleeping when he will pass.
But there is comfort for when he comes you don’t know
And I’ll be away thinking of your mahogany fur and coppery
Taint when your blood is drawn, your tongue wet and cold
As the snouts of pigs wrinkling, patting, beautiful, a tetany
For a second or two and our suffering is over and with it
The days of gay and the white hairs on your head fade
From my registry of childhood comforts leaving every
Coconut trunk in the garden a niche in the cuddly shape
Of your body, there will be no fly strikes or graves for you
Are bacon, ham and sausages an honour made when due.
This poem was inspired by my duroc pig, Bootleg.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Sunday, September 6, 2015