I have never slaughtered a pig.
My hands, though slathered with a sheen
Of melted flesh, are swiftly cleaned
With a simple paper towel.
My dining room is far removed
From all those grisly factories,
Farms, if my imagination
Is generous or wanting.
The maddening aroma is not
The smell of industrialized
Brutality, nor is the snap
And sizzle of the grease the squealing
Of the slain. The cheerful plastic
Wrapping, with its solid blue sky
And deep green fields could never be
An insulting monument.
This crudely printed porcine form
Cannot signify the killing
Of untold thousands as it falls
Into the waiting garbage can.
And yet, as it descends, I think
Briefly, of far off killing fields.
My heart stirs, straining then, but no,
I have never slaughtered a pig.
T.J. Smith is a poet in New York. Originally from Jacksonville, FL, he studied German and Creative Writing at Princeton University, and he is currently completing an MFA at New York University. His work has appeared in Gyroscope Review, Red Flag Poetry, and Nassau Literary Review.
the patterns do not change __ __ __ __
they are misremembered __ __ __ __
cool hand __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
separate heat __ __ __ __ __ __
Be gentle don’t bump it I’ve got Andromeda centered
In the viewfinder but it will already have shifted slightly
Gliding its trillion stars and their moons in millimeters
Behind the local legends painted ancient on the dome
but ask me again how much
I care about the other mouths
that could call my name.
We’d get home, and he’d go back to weaseling money out of Mom
and squandering it on things that were smokable or fit in a syringe,
on what wasn’t bread. The little money he made came from
selling our family’s things: Mom’s jewelry, TV and VCR
swallows actin’ drunk
swimmin’ overhead
chasin’ each other ‘round
like brand new lovers
stumblin’ out the bar at 2 am
I command subjects, turn math to English, history
to lunch, govern teachers and students alike in
my slow crawl through middle and high school
periods.
We are all God’s little playthings. Or else why are we on a ball.
I had the goods,
the lowdown, the skinny,
the whole truth
and nothing but.
I was dangerously
in the know.
If you listen, really listen, their voices come back.
They start to tell you about places you’ve
never been, about things you want with
a ferocity that scares you sometimes. They make
sense. Sit with them on the couch and watch
a movie you know is bad.
Only connect
indeed. Dressed and buckled in
like chefs or psychiatric patients,
they shuffle and lunge.