Found in Willow Springs 95
Potbellied Pig
At the beach, a swine is dragged from
the narrow doorway of an RV, cries an agony,
stomps a fit, harnessed by parents
who named him Kevin Bacon, clipped him
a mohawk, dyed it red, white, and blue, bright enough
to pledge allegiance because this is America
where you can flag your colors
on a 150-pound potbelly pig, stroll him on the sandy shore,
pose him in green plastic shades, create a sensation—
whose Latin root means intended to excite violent emotions,
which, I’ll admit, Kevin does for me, because I don’t want
him to be a spectacle in the gloaming, only
the Lord’s delicate making. Kevin
sways and trundles, forked feet sink in spume,
his holler melding with surf, as if he is hailing
the sea in his own swine song
for courage or rescue, I don’t know which. I’m afraid of
how much I crave my own raw nature.
I want permission to muddy my lips, taste
the pocked marsh of a root, gnash the pearly red beads
of a mulberry tree, grub on worms and tubers,
my tusks emerging like spears, carve my
way in the world with certainty born of blood and fire.
Don’t we all want permission to re-wild?
Become enough as we are without the thunderclap
of public story? As a crowd gathers to snap selfies
with Kevin, his cries subdue, snout submerged in sand,
ardent heart lashed to human will. I weep
for him, for my untamed self—winged child
of my dreams, fairy who galloped bareback among
the stars. Even now, I want to paw
at the earth, sniff rain soaked air, unlock
the passage between grief and liberty.
