Albert the Pig Speaks
       

The tumor's behind my eye— a corkscrew
homunculus with teeth and twenty
hairs, soft as the inside of an elephant's
mouth. The cut-throat cock is on the table
with a bowl for its blood and a pile
of leeks. My tongue swells and bristles—
the chalk-gray taste of rotting clay.
The injured owl growls in the corner
beside the laughing pederastic turtledoves.
Stomach, flac-soled, dropsical—
my emptiness sings. And a dozen
ex-wives neck-hung in the closet,
ulcerated, independent. You don't want
to love me, boys and girls—my pink coat
shines, but I'm heart-breaking.

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Copyright © 2012 Adam Day All rights reserved
from New Madrid
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission