Big pig, smart and fattened
to grotesque, I am not better
than you, though I am different:
I can speak my rage, build your crate.
You reason like a preschooler,
but he can ask for ham,
and a mother oblige.
Pig, you will not see a sun in your life.
You will not know space
or mother. They will fatten you on harrowing
and hang you by a foot.
They will hack your neck
and you will struggle until your body
tears from its leg, and your foot
unleashes from its strap, and you pitch
to your own thick blood. And the man
with the knife, in his sadness,
he will kick and kick you,
and the ten after you, and the ten after,
the ten and ten after, speaking his rage:
Die, heartbreaking beast.