Stuck Pig

There are nails penetrating my hooves,
and I think of Jesus, and how I’m nothing like him except
that he was Atlas and I only bear my own sins, but

suddenly I remember that animals were crucified too,
grunting squealing oinking barking like unoiled
gears sticking together, grinding stuck pigs
into sausage.

I imagine my belly cut, my bowels spilled,
crowds of cannibals taking communion
from my body. My pale pink body, pregnant
with passion, or is that apathy? They soak me
up with tampons when I don’t give birth to their dreams.

And when I say forgive me father for I have sinned,
I realize I am squealing at those stricken deaf by religion,
and that I have no sins, for I am a pig and I cannot
sin and therefore cannot be forgiven because

I am merely instinct.
I roll and revel in shit when I’m alive,
and when I’m dead I look like Jesus.

~03/09