I don't think this poem is so hot, but I'll read it anyway.
It's called "The Widow."
"After I burned the boar's carcass,
I fill the slop bucket.
And the old sow gets up grunting from deep inside
where the piglets, just beginning to wake,
are already smelling the sour food
and stretching their pink toes toward me.
As I dump the slop into the trough,
the sow rubs her snout against my leg,
and I kneel, pushing my head through to the muddy side
of her body.
I touch her teat with my tongue.
She grunts, and I climb over the fence.
I sink down on my side in the mud, the wet black cotton
of the earth as my wife calls--
no, not my wife, the woman.
I don't say anything.
How can I tell her he will never come?"