Is the language of lost Argonauts and children,
what Circe spoke to Odysseus’ bristling men.
Pig Latin befuddles, is truffle muggery.
The razored blades penetrated Caesar and he burst,
chrysanthemum, into Pig Latin.
In December, month of blood,
the butchers’ liturgy is spoken in Pig Latin.
In Pig Latin, every Slav is an impaler.
Stockyard perdition, Spam abomination,
those high on the hog speak Pig Latin in tongues.
Snouted censors spawn nebulae of incense
that swim through the empty packing plant.
From pulpits of marble pink as pate, porcine priests
preach Liberation Theology, Devolution, Atavism.
They say, “No one marries the swineherd’s daughter.”
They say, “Eat the Rich;” curse gelatin, headcheese and jowl bacon;
thunder at the fallen angels--Superior, Swift, and Oscar Meyer;
recite comforting homilies about sow’s ears, silk purses and
lipstick like a gash; bless the condemned, flesh a sacrament.
Among their saints are Agnes, bearded lady crucified;
futile Christopher pulled from ten thousand dashboards;
patron of diggers, bare-breasted Barbara, nipples red as pokers;
Nantucket’s spotless Pollard, pockets filled with finger bones;
the entire Donnor Party; rotund and joyous Sugardale Sam.
In Pig Latin, hell looks a lot like Chicago.
The Rye-Boar walks through the need-fire,
rushes through the corn.
Trotters, Porkers, Squealers, Boars--men touch them,
then walk into the river.
They’ve devoured Osiris, and do not fear wolves
who huff and puff.
Theirs are the hooveprints of Persephone.
Their bones are kept till sowing time.