Original Poem：
Twelve people, most of us strangers, stand in a room
in Ann Arbor, drinking Cribari from jars.
Then two young men, who cooked him,
carry him to the table
on a large square of plywood: his body
striped, like a tiger cat’s, from the basting,
his legs long, much longer than a cat’s,
and the striped hide as shiny as vinyl.
Now I see his head, as he takes his place
at the center of the table,
his wide pig’s head; and he looks like the
javelina
that ran in front of the car, in the desert outside Tucson,
and I am drawn to him, my brother the pig,
with his large ears cocked forward,
with his tight snout, with his small ferocious teeth
in a jaw propped open
by an apple. How bizarre, this raw apple clenched
in a cooked face! Then I see his eyes,
his eyes cramped shut, his no-eyes, his eyes like X’s
in a comic strip, when the character gets knocked out.
This afternoon they read directions
from a book:
The eyeballs must be removed
or they will burst during roasting.
So they hacked them out.
"I nearly fainted," says someone.
"I never fainted before, in my whole life."
Then they gutted the pig and stuffed him,
and roasted him five hours, basting the long body.
??????????????????*
Now we examine him, exclaiming, and we marvel at him—
but no one picks up a knife.
Then a young woman cuts off his head.
It comes off so easily, like a detachable part.
With sudden enthusiasm we dismantle the pig,
we wrench his trotters off, we twist them
at shoulder and hip, and they come off so easily.
Then we cut open his belly and pull the skin back.
For myself, I scoop a portion of left thigh,
moist, tender, falling apart, fat, sweet.
We forage like an army starving in winter
that crosses a pass in the hills and discovers
a valley of full barns—
cattle fat and lowing in their stalls,
bins of potatoes in root cellars under white farmhouses.
barrels of cider, onions, hens squawking over eggs—
and the people nowhere, with bread still warm in the oven.
Maybe, south of the valley, refugees pull their carts
listening for Stukas or elephants, carrying
bedding, pans, and silk dresses,
old men and women, children, deserters, young wives.
No, we are here, eating the pig together.
??????????????????*
In ten minutes, the destruction is total.
His tiny ribs, delicate as birds’ feet, lie crisscrossed.
Or they are like crosshatching in a drawing,
lines doubling and redoubling on each other.
Bits of fat and muscle
mix with stuffing alien to the body,
walnuts and plums. His skin, like a parchment bag
soaked in oil, is pulled back and flattened,
with ridges and humps remaining, like a contour map,
like the map of a defeated country.
The army consumes every blade of grass in the valley,
every tree, every stream, every village,
every crossroad, every shack, every book, every graveyard.
His intact head
swivels around, to view the landscape of body
as if in dismay.
"For sixteen weeks I lived. For sixteen weeks
I took into myself nothing but the milk of my mother
who rolled on her side for me,
for my brothers and sisters. Only five hours roasting,
and this body so quickly dwindles away to nothing."
??????????????????*
By itself, isolated on this plywood,
among this puzzle of foregone possibilities,
his intact head seems to want affection.
Without knowing that I will do it,
I reach out and scratch his jaw,
and I stroke him behind his ears,
as if he might suddenly purr from his cooked head.
"When I stroke your pig’s ears,
and scratch the striped leather of your jowls,
the furrow between the sockets of your eyes,
I take into myself, and digest,
wheat that grew between
the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers.
"And I take into myself the flint carving tool,
and the savannah, and hairs in the tail
of Eohippus, and fingers of bamboo,
and Hannibal’s elephant, and Hannibal,
and everything that lived before us, everything born,
exalted, and dead, and historians who carved in the Old Kingdom
when the wall had not heard about China."
I speak these words
into the ear of the Stone Age pig, the Abraham
pig, the ocean pig, the Achilles pig,
and into the ears
of the fire pig that will eat our bodies up.
"Fire, brother and father,
twelve of us, in our different skins, older and younger,
opened your skin together
and tore your body apart, and took it
into our bodies."
Analysis and Interpretation of the Poem
This evocative poem narrates a communal experience centered around the roasting and sharing of a pig. The scene is set in Ann Arbor, where twelve mostly unfamiliar people gather to partake in this ritual. The poem vividly describes the pig’s physical appearance after being cooked, emphasizing its striped, shiny body and wide head, which evokes a complex mixture of fascination, kinship, and unease.
The poem explores themes of life and death, community, and the interconnectedness of humans and animals. The pig is portrayed almost as a living being with a history and personality, referred to as “my brother the pig,” which deepens the emotional impact. The detailed description of the pig’s body—its eyes removed, the apple in its mouth, the delicate ribs—underscores the transformation from a living creature to food, highlighting the ritualistic and primal nature of eating.
The poem also reflects on the historical and evolutionary connections between humans and animals, referencing ancient tools, landscapes, and civilizations. The speaker’s act of stroking the pig’s head symbolizes a respectful acknowledgment of this shared past and the cycle of life and death.
Background and Author Introduction
Though the poem does not explicitly name its author, it reflects a style common in contemporary poetry that blends personal narrative with vivid imagery and philosophical reflection. The setting in Ann Arbor suggests a modern, possibly academic or artistic community gathering, while the detailed, almost anthropological approach to describing the pig and the ritual hints at influences from both nature writing and cultural anthropology.
The poem’s tone balances between reverence and raw honesty, inviting readers to confront the realities of food consumption and the often-ignored connections between humans and the animals they eat. This kind of poetry encourages reflection on ethical eating, tradition, and the human relationship with nature.
Educational Value and Learning Points
Students and children can learn several important lessons from this poem:
- Respect for Food and Animals: The poem encourages readers to think deeply about where their food comes from and to appreciate the life that sustains them.
- Community and Sharing: The gathering of strangers around a shared meal highlights themes of connection and cooperation.
- Descriptive Language and Imagery: The poem provides rich examples of metaphor, simile, and vivid sensory description, useful for language arts learning.
- Cultural and Historical Awareness: References to ancient tools, geography, and history invite interdisciplinary learning involving history, geography, and anthropology.
- Emotional Intelligence: The poem’s mix of fascination, discomfort, and respect helps students explore complex emotions related to life and death.
Applications in Life and Learning
- In Literature Classes: The poem can be used to teach imagery, symbolism, and narrative voice.
- In Social Studies: It can introduce discussions about food traditions, rituals, and cultural practices.
- In Ethics and Philosophy: The poem prompts debate on human-animal relationships and ethical eating.
- In Science: It can be a starting point for exploring animal biology and the food chain.
- In Personal Growth: Encourages mindfulness about consumption and gratitude.
Reading Comprehension Questions
- Where does the poem take place, and how many people are involved in the scene?
- How is the pig described after cooking, and what comparisons are made to animals?
- What emotions does the speaker express toward the pig?
- What is the significance of the apple in the pig’s mouth?
- How do the people in the poem interact with the pig’s body during the meal?
- What historical and evolutionary references does the speaker make?
- What themes does the poem explore about life, death, and community?
- Why do you think the speaker strokes the pig’s head at the end of the poem?
- How does the poem make you think about the relationship between humans and animals?
- What lessons can be learned from this poem about respect and gratitude?
Answers
- The poem takes place in Ann Arbor, with twelve people, most of whom are strangers.
- The pig is described as striped like a tiger cat, with long legs and shiny hide, and its head is compared to a javelina.
- The speaker feels a kinship with the pig, calling it "my brother," and shows a mixture of fascination, respect, and sadness.
- The apple in the pig’s mouth is a traditional symbol in roasting, but its rawness contrasts with the cooked body, creating a bizarre and striking image.
- The people dismantle the pig with enthusiasm, marveling at it but initially hesitant to cut, then eagerly sharing the meat.
- The speaker references ancient tools, the savannah, historical figures like Hannibal, and early civilizations to connect the pig with human history.
- The poem explores themes of mortality, the cycle of life and death, communal sharing, and the human connection to nature.
- Stroking the pig’s head symbolizes respect, affection, and acknowledgment of the pig’s life and sacrifice.
- The poem encourages reflection on how humans depend on animals and the ethical considerations of eating meat.
- Lessons include respect for living beings, gratitude for food, awareness of life cycles, and the importance of community.
This poem offers a profound meditation on the ritual of eating as a shared human experience that connects past and present, life and death, and strangers brought together by a common act of nourishment and remembrance.
