mama says never stare a pig in the eye too long.
she says they remember faces, even after the bones are clean.
the old sow in the back pen has teeth like splintered moonlight.
She ate a man once, i think. or maybe a god.

they found his crown in her slop trough, crusted with violets.
his tongue was nailed to the fence like a pink ribbon.
i asked if it hurt. mama said gods don’t feel pain like us.

sometimes, I bring them gifts—my baby teeth,
bird wings, a jar of my laughter.
they grunt and bubble and whisper in mud-language.
i think they’re casting spells.

one pig has seven eyes. another has hands under her hooves.
one grinned at me with a mouth full of tiny, human teeth.
i asked what they want. they said, you, eventually.

when i sleep, i dream of root-snouts tunneling through my belly,
of my bones stacked like kindling,
of a pig in a wedding dress, saying, come home now, darling, it’s time.
and I wake up sticky with mud that smells like honey and meat.