The piglet is a phantom rose shade like a ribbon drenched in his cold-scorch sun buttermilk

and his mother is a nearly frosted fuzz speckled with rain clouds on her sweat-stained pelt,

the piglet looks into his mother’s sappy eyes and nestles closer to her gleaming snout,

he squeaks like a tin can and his mother sends a haze of her oat breath to rustle his grassy hair.

The piglet loves when his mother’s round body rises and falls

like air-stuffed bread dough

or bees abdomens in preparation for a raspberry-blood sting,

the expansion of her silken belly lifting her face further from the urine-scented floor,

further from the piglet and his identical tree sap eyes,

yet the eyes never let go, they hold on tight to each other like leaves in the sticky summer.

The piglet loves his mother’s oat-filled frame and her traveling head,

but he isn’t the only one.

The others desire her, though not in the same way the piglet does.

The others don’t love her icy, rain-cloud skin.

The others don’t love her glowing amber irises.

The others don’t love her oat-ridden exhales.

The others don’t know how it feels for the piglet and his mother to hold hands with their eyes.

The others want to take it all away, slice and skin and discard the enchantments of her being

in the efforts to source her fatty flesh and stuff their own soft, round bellies.

Right now, the piglet doesn’t know and neither does his mother,

but they’ll learn in the upcoming yolk of Lady Dawn and her flame-fingered handmaidens.

Only this exact morning, this feverish glare of white sun,

where the jewel-green flies loop the symbols of infinity in the glittering aerate

and the son is closely nestled with his gentle mother,

will they remain together, whole, ripe, embraced, leaves in the summer, not in the autumn.

And this certain morning, the piglet finds extraordinarily beguiling

as the petal-slice moth lingers in the frame of the splintered door

and the pear-like voices of the misty birds overhead echo throughout the languid vicinity.