October 22, 2015

“It was dinnertime. The family was seated at the table. A roasted hide of pig sat as the centerpiece. It was a whole pig with crisp brown skin and open mouth gripping a wrinkled red-brown apple. The pig’s eyes were rolled back in its shriveled head. From where I sat, the pig’s blank gaze seemed directed at me. The family hummed in excitement over the meat. Pig such as this was cause for celebration. It was just the thing to eat when it was dark outside and the moon was up. Someone carved into the meat. Someone divided the meat into pieces. Someone tore the meat. Slabs of pork dropped onto every dish. My piece was still pink, with a broken piece of off-white artery in its center. I poked at the artery with my fork.”

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