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A poem for February by Joseph O’Brien
February: “Portrait of Pig”
After a picture by Jamie Wyeth
February—(Februarius (mensis), (month) of purification
februa>, expiatory offerings, poss. of Sabine orig.)
—The American Heritage College Dictionary
- I
- In this trim girth of days came Valentine,
- A lover of trash, slurper of pre-chewed
- Dinner, rooter of other people’s food:
- How I loved you, remembering how fine
- A day, warm for the month, which roofed your birth.
- Snow dripped like grease from barn steeples and eaves;
- (It is a false spring which cruelly deceives
- Farmyard children in the naked pink of earth.)
- Father spared you from his largesse, but said,
- Handing your squealing tininess to me,
- “Love demands a sacrifice, so don’t be
- Surprised when it’s asked.” You felt, then, like lead
- In my arms, Valentine, my heaving loved one,
- Born this month of slops and expiation.
- II
- The pork report comes over the radio
- From across the river in Iowa,
- Dividing your life into a ratio
- Of belly futures to null viscera:
- Such magnitudes only portraits contain –
- The amethyst squint of your tiny eyes,
- Your humanoid expanse of facial strain.
- These held your pride, like a swarm of flies,
- To cluster and swell, gold in pinked oils.
- Now stretched on hooks above my hearth and gone
- From all but memory’s greedy taste for spoils,
- You strut your prized shanks with ribbons undone.
- So fame is broadcast for you who were penned
- For February forecasts, this runt-month’s end.
Joseph O’Brien is the poetry editor for the San Diego Reader.
Here's something you might be interested in.
A poem for February by Joseph O’Brien
February: “Portrait of Pig”
A poem for February by Joseph O’Brien
February: “Portrait of Pig”
After a picture by Jamie Wyeth
February—(Februarius (mensis), (month) of purification
februa>, expiatory offerings, poss. of Sabine orig.)
—The American Heritage College Dictionary
- I
- In this trim girth of days came Valentine,
- A lover of trash, slurper of pre-chewed
- Dinner, rooter of other people’s food:
- How I loved you, remembering how fine
- A day, warm for the month, which roofed your birth.
- Snow dripped like grease from barn steeples and eaves;
- (It is a false spring which cruelly deceives
- Farmyard children in the naked pink of earth.)
- Father spared you from his largesse, but said,
- Handing your squealing tininess to me,
- “Love demands a sacrifice, so don’t be
- Surprised when it’s asked.” You felt, then, like lead
- In my arms, Valentine, my heaving loved one,
- Born this month of slops and expiation.
- II
- The pork report comes over the radio
- From across the river in Iowa,
- Dividing your life into a ratio
- Of belly futures to null viscera:
- Such magnitudes only portraits contain –
- The amethyst squint of your tiny eyes,
- Your humanoid expanse of facial strain.
- These held your pride, like a swarm of flies,
- To cluster and swell, gold in pinked oils.
- Now stretched on hooks above my hearth and gone
- From all but memory’s greedy taste for spoils,
- You strut your prized shanks with ribbons undone.
- So fame is broadcast for you who were penned
- For February forecasts, this runt-month’s end.
Joseph O’Brien is the poetry editor for the San Diego Reader.
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Feb. 8, 2022