piglet at the spit-roast
by Bethany Lines

at the spit-roast this summer

i was butter-baste in grit

and oiled; an engine roared ahead of the fuel

show-time

whistling weak while skewed

much yelling, much laughing, much rousing

young boys wrestling in the yard

pointing, staring, lucky

to be alive

ahead of the game they call it feud

fiddling with their own fingers instead of knowing

what to do

and i could teach them how to

remember their bodies, even

the young ones, the girls with no love, even the old broads

the ugly guys

would see the fruit bowl in the dark and be moved by it

before i could

open my mouth

the grossest pimp of them all

fired me up with the blow, pump to poke

peruse skin for a zip like an envelope

and opened my mouth for me

i contain no words but

if this is a breeding ground; i cannot

give you what you want

willingness

for assuming that much of me

in the corner of the yard

two cats in a bush that stroke the universe with their tails

and a baby in arms, sleepy, sleepy thing

a growing man who says

to his lovely girl

with her head on his shoulder

drop-dead-or-don't if i kiss you but i won't, they

do eye contact instead

and she asks:

can you hold it? can you hold me? language for

the moaning into each other's mouths

while i am in it

about the taste of each other's mouths and

moments i should've been honest

much like this one as i am in as i learn

death is no drought of love; i am proof

of a mysterious lack of compassion

boast about the brink of starvation

and stomach honesty

to loathe one another

for hours, on top of hours

and they know: they know

how to open their mouths