content note: implied slaughter
There’s this dive that serves burgers and tenderloins
and a pig snoot sandwich —
police rookies are served the latter as a rite of passage.
They’ve been slinging snoot since the Depression era
when people were more appreciative
of the eat everything but the oink mentality.
Served on a bun, one nostril yellow with mustard,
the other red-orange with horseradish and hot sauce,
garnished with tomato and onion.
Pigs have exceptional senses of smell.
It’s how they sniff out those elusive truffles.
I want the sandwich to reflect this sophistication,
but it’s fatty, spongy, though the horseradish
clears my own sinuses. As I chew it,
I think of our road trip to Chicago,
sister meatpacking city, a livestock truck on I-80
hauling young piglets, dozens of tiny pink noses
thrust inquiringly through the slats like
climbing vine roses, tasting the Iowa air.
is an award-winning poet and author. Her titles include Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. She lives in Kansas City, MO.
Copyright for all work remains with the author thereof and any requests to reprint should be made directly.
Issue 1 © SPOONFEED Magazine
SPOONFEED x New Writing © Caitlin Allen
Issue 2 © Louise Crosby