The pig’s foot
I noticed the vat way down
the counter
while Tammy wrapped the chicken.
"What are those?"
"Pig’s feet."
"Have you had one?"
"Sean has."
"Sean, are they healthy?"
"Not at all."
"Do you have to cook ‘em?"
"No, they’ve already been boiled."
I told Tammy I wanted one.
Her tongs searched the vat
far too carefully
for the prize.
I took my pig’s foot home.
Opened the bag over the sink.
Oh boy!
The underside of the foot was blue tendon
and slimy white bone.
I bit the edge of the foot,
a small piece.
Rubbery. Inedible.
I turned the foot over.
It was a pig’s severed foot, the texture
of the skin much like human skin.
I felt sad.
Pig’s feet were eaten when there was nothing else to eat.
Severing and selling them seemed cruel and arrogant
in 2001, when people were supposed to be
docking with silver donuts
in space.
I threw the pig’s foot away
and resumed pickling the heads
of the whores I’ve killed.
Ben La Rosa
MODERN MEN
"I’m going to
fucken
rip your cheeks apart
if you say another word...
you stupid shit!
This is the last time
I’m warning your skinny ass!"
She growls, flinging hair
before shooting
a whiskey down.
Rick puffs on a Camel
as he rubs without taking pause,
cleaning off the glasses behind the bar;
It pays the rent and that’s about it.
The young man with sideburns
bows his head as if he were a little boy
who had just wet himself,
then stands up
and shuffles pathetically
off toward the bathroom.