by Kay Cosgrove
They still slice them open, that hasn’t changed, but now
instead of grass: cages instead of sex, only the scent of sex
to get the lady pigs ready
for the plastic insert and motherhood.
I learned this from Ira Glass via Netflix via John’s subscription
last night about midnight and now well, it’s there, isn’t it? I can’t remove
the facts from my brain with some tiny tweezers the housedoctor for the dollhouse has
in his doll-bag. His midnight
calls are becoming more and more frequent as the lady of the house readies
to give birth to a new, precious piggy.
Kay Cosgrove work has appeared in journals such as Zone 3, Caper Literary Journal, Scrambler, Autumn Sky Poetry and Verse Wisconsin. She is a first-year doctoral student in the University of Houston’s Creative Writing Program.
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