Two Pigs Making Out
We’re at the feeding trough again, eating
face. My sweaty snout nuzzles yours, tongue
on pork tongue. I swallow your soft electric
oinks between breaths and my curled tail
straightens with satisfaction. Our bodies
mirror like ink blots, the barnyard dirt our page.
I spit the words out. An I love you no one
expected. The situation misread. We’re only
two pigs making out, nothing lovely about it.
I have a wife and piglets, you say, pressing pause
on the CD player just before “Old McDonald Had
a Farm.” You put your pig shirt back on. Pig pants.
Little pig rain boots with pink socks. Tight leather
jacket—right in front of the cows. As you trot away
your hind leg splatters mud in my face.