Going to the country to buy once beings,

local meat production exists in my bible.

A patch of piglets I wanted to take home,

my pitchfork digging through manure,

hugging an endangered species, community,

I tell the piggy I’m kidnapping it.

But it’s not a goat.

Then bending over the farmer’s giant cooler

half full of her meat,

less overflowing than usual

because of the chicken slaughter this weekend,

200 broken necks.

The farmer jokes to me she wants to be a vegetarian,

peering over the freezer

asking me what I can cram in my little fridge.

I have mixed views on meat.

In general, a carcinogen,

but local growers get a pass.

There is nothing more ethical or healthy than local food production.

I tell it to the piglet,

swinging my legs into my car,

and leave it unnamed.

(Neopolitan Pig)