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Some Questions Raised by Observing the Church of the Firstborn Sign on Hwy 99 S.To Wendy Carlisle's previous piece     StoriesTo Wendy Carlisle's next piece

          after Andrea Hollander Buddy

It is not hunger or its empty howl
He fears.  It's the helpless 

Taste for pork that propels 
And masters him-hog lust 

Eating up the night, chewing 
Through the dark to their tidy houses.  

Straw, then sticks, then brick, he 
Admires the walls, imagines them

Blown away, razed;  pictures pig 
Families; sees them light lamps, tell

Tales, bear young; craves them skewered, 
Bar-b-qued to ease his fearful appetite.
At night, he tells himself that sows are born fools,
That pigs exist to tempt a wolf.  He knows

He is a fiend to get at them, will chance 
A steep climb to the chimney to catch the smell 
Of their rank, sweet  hides: useless swine, 
Pigs, prey,  will slide to their hot center 

Their hot, sweet center.

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