pig roast

hardly
a word is spoken about
the head,
severed
pink, upon the table.
resting openly
on the white
clothed table.
once alive,
this pig, now roasted
and split,
carved with a butcher's
knife.
turned over a blazing
fire for hours
on the slow turn
of a long sharp
spit.
his ears have crusted
over just so.
his eyes gone, his
mouth agape.
we turn instead to talk
of us,
of them, of why
we're here. the blue sky,
the rain
that may appear.
not it, not this.
that life has met
it's end.