invited me to dinner.
I didn't mind the bristles
on his chinny-chin-chin.
And the truffles by candlelight
were a definite hit. I hadn't
known the porcine heart
was so similar to my own.
Is it true, I asked, that you eat your own kind?
(I had witnessed it with my own eyes,
but wanted to hear him answer.) His wet
snout trembled over the china rims, pink
and blind. You must think I am a monster!
And dabbed a tear with scented linen.
When he did not come back to bed that night
I knew something was wrong.
Tiptoeing down the cold halls I found
an empty room where his body hung
from a hook, like a gorged tick. HowI do not know. But the blood fell at my feet
he had climbed up there, and cut his own throat