Consumption

Rebekah Denison Hewitt

There were days when death ballooned 

like the bloated stomach of a sheep 

which lay stiffened in the field. 

But this is a poem about the pig who lived 

fevered and milking, mastitis mother pig

with engorged udders, appetite lost. 

The farmer called the vet who gave the pills 

to bring the fever down, so as not to cook her brain.

The pig was prayed for and petted, left to rest 

in her quiet pen. A consumable creature

valued because of her duty to mother 

before consumption. Consumed either way. 

But first the piglets screech at her nipples 

like a dozen rusty stall doors. They call her 

through the gate and back to life.