This poem is called "The Pig."
And it's an intellectual pig talking from his position
in the barnyard.
And it's a very ambiguous poem or at least the ending is.
I'm not sure what I meant by it myself.
"The Pig."
I was born smaller than they had been led to expect,
less sweet, their plate still shining with grease.
My flesh quivers.
I am the other creature.
Nothing has changed, the farmer's wife
sees only my open mouth, the least intelligence
a beast may possess.
Her husband feeds me chemicals, precious leavings
from his table, but he keeps his distance like the rest.
He knows I would eat a human child on my own.
Sometimes I stand in a field and chew.
My eyes close when he is not around.
What do I dream?
He watches from the window, thinking of other things.
I appreciate that.
But he will come upon me in the morning after our little nap.
I am dreaming of nothing, I am a pig.
He will raise his ax, at last I will
look at his wife, who holds her breath in her hands,
like a prayer.
She is mine, there is no doubt of that.
I will die for her and she will eat me.
This is how I conceive of it.
Many women still dream of this act.