The King of Pigs

    At the back of a barn lies a swollen old pig. 

    Forgotten and covered with dust, the pig's heaving breath is occasionally interrupted by a sharp snort. Its odor is marked by a putrid stagnancy, whereby the immovable animal rots and rots and rots. Save for the pig and the creaking of old wood, the barn stays quiet year-round, and dust continues to layer on top of more dust.

    During the winter, the sun spills light through the old wood, covering the inside of the barn for an hour or two a day. And, if only for a moment, the pig feels alive. 

Language of the Animals

 I have this dream

of an island full of animals:

there is no sound,

there are no people

—except me.

I sit at the island's center

and all of the animals—

the avians and the marsupials,

the insects and the herbivores, 

and even the moles and bats

—all stare at me.

And this goes on and on

and after enough time has passed

and they eventually go back to their 

cricketing and chirping, and 

squeaking and squawking, 

until I open my mouth again

and let out a sound.

And then they stare—

a bottomless, gutless stare;

a depreciating, foreign stare.

And, like before,

they eventually go back to their

bleating and barking, and

clucking and purring

until I open my mouth

and nothing comes out

—and I get it.