Both pigs are dead.
Pig blood gluts
under cellophane.

You care that the pigs
lived well. Care how
they died
or you don’t —
shot in the eye
throat slit
death is death.

This little pig was born
to her mother. This little
pig was born to another
sow, paid for farrowing
suckling piglets, uncomforted
by pig skin
on pig skin.

This little pig wanted
real diamonds.
And cheap coffee.
This little pig wore
fast fashion, and took
budget flights
all the way home.

One pig’s father wrote a book
and the book said,
Anything can happen ethically.
One pig’s father wrote a book
and the book said,
Anything can be ethical.

For many years those
pig fathers discoursed
over the nuance of ethics,
until the word collapsed
under its own weight.
Accumulating ideologies
piled up like dead pigs.

Under strip lights
in the butchery aisle,
pig carcasses gleam.

Am I both pigs?

Neither?

My father never
wrote a book.