Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Pork Roast

With apologies to Wallace Stevens, whose

Thirteen Ways

of Looking at a Blackbird is one of my favorite poems.

I.

Surrounded on all sides

By an army of red potatoes

Pork roast still manages to dominate.

II.

Pork roast sits

In a white bag

Awaiting the time for its appearance.

III.

Slice into a hot roast;

All the juices flow out.

IV.

A man and a woman

Are hungry.

A man, a woman and their dog

Are hungry.

V.

Once you played

Happily in the mud

With your brothers and sisters.

Your squeals of delight shattered

With that one final squeal.

VI.

There in the market

All lined up together

In the icy meat case;

The food morgue is open

Twenty-four hours a day.

VII.

I do not know which to prefer

The doing

Or the savoring.

Eating the pork roast,

Or just after.

VIII.

Eat all your pork roast.

Children are starving in India.

IX.

The other white meat.

X.

The dog leaps;

Its paws atop the table,

Its jaws at one with the roast.

Now the two fly

Into the garden;

By the time I arrive,

There is only the dog.

XI.

Bits of fat and drippings

Have crusted dry on the pan.

Memory of a pork roast.

XII.

You melt in my mouth,

Succulent pig.

XIII.

The kind-hearted vegetarian weeps for you,

Little roast.