The scissoring butterfly wings of the rib bones
Of a Berkshire sow. Smoke and sugar,
And cruel vinegar. My largesse
Over the transverse grill is to snatch
One strip of flesh from its constellation
In a hot-handed pass to the son
Who stands beside me in the snow.
I break a link to make one.
He is keen. The bone sticks from his mouth
Like a boar-tusk. Little votive tongues
Hiss up a witness.

It would mortify St. Francis, but there’s something
Sacramental in all that sublimated fat.
We are atavists to the bone,
Who in vicarity, indulgence,
And burnt thumbs perpetuate ourselves,
Our different positions, common cages.
Hacked sacrum. Bristle of penitence
For the pig skin. Sow of man, pardon, pass
Over the appetite, stick to the ribs.