Pigs
Spending their entire lives
in small, metal cages; growing
fat on the cornmeal and
corn syrup that sustains them;
being unable to fit where
fate has housed them,
the pigs stare at the ground,
gazing into the dirt
that softens beneath their feet—
their cloven hooves digging,
mud clumping,
in the earth.
Then, one day, while
they are daydreaming,
pondering about a
better life, wondering
what it would be like
to feast—feral curiosity beaming
through the resignation that
crusts their drooping eyelids—
they fall into a deep,
synthetic sleep,
a slow-rolling,
apneic slumber.
Legs up, the pigs are hoisted
onto a stainless steel railing,
tethered to it by firmly
knotted ropes, and knives are placed
between their jaws and their
neck bones. Before long, the blades
jet in, exsanguinating the beasts,
letting the blood trickle down
from the jugular veins to pool
below the severed skin—
dripping, dripping,
heavy, tiny droplets dripping.
As the bodies drain, a machine
carries them to a hot, iron cauldron
where they are dipped in scalding water,
their hair boiling from their flesh,
torching as the last streams
of life flood from their neck.
Pulled up, the air steams as skin cools,
and evisceration approaches—
decapitation, being slit in half,
intestines tugged from the open pouch,
bones slipped from inside the muscle…
all washed and cut.
The other pigs remain oblivious,
penned up in the comforts
of symmetry—held captive
in the benefits of a regular meal
and a functional routine of being.
They do not know that they
exist for the purpose of being
gutted, nor do they realize
that such a reality is an option.
They simply stare at the ground
and feed themselves fat,
waiting in small, metal cages.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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