Little pig. You hug the ground, wide nostrils
chasing down some phantom scent. You even
-toed ungulate, you thick-skinned swine. What

would your mother think of you now, knee deep
in slop and hoofing for children, for treats? Little
pig. She gave you breath, short legs, a heavy flank

for the wild. For the instinct that explodes inside
you like a star. To run, to run. Feel your strong
tusks splitting through soft gum. Don’t you know

the ground glints with bones? You can have it all.
Little pig, raise your head. If you’re going to wear
those wings, you must believe you can fly.