In the Time of Hog Death and Rogue Masculinities
There once were some hogs, a horse, a little well with some water.
The hogs wanting hunger satisfied, or knowing rage, chased
the mare, the livid tusks tearing at the sturdy legs. She bled.
Gashed, she limped. And my grandfather like my father
said, Here’s a gun. Boy, tie this rope. Stand there, hold this end.
For days, after, I heard the hog dripping. From the oak.
The hog strung up—there is a photograph—by her hooves, soaked.
The ground damp with dark heat and hog shit. Friend,
I smiled big and held my breath. We sat on the tailgate.
In my grandfather’s truck on a tarp, the sow lay leaking.
My ankles dangled. From the bed: a wispy tail
like a lie I was learning then to tell.
All night the tusk peak glared from her jowl meat.
That day, how I must have made them so proud.
Parable of Pillow Talk with a Chupacabra
Is there anything more lovely than a creature
who loves itself
when the whole world tells it, No?
In the dark
I am glamoured: the marshlands, like the rifeness
of spoiling marigold
whispering to aguanto, and I whispered
about the pelican, its idea
to slam its face full of want
into the dark sea
For a fish, won’t we do anything?
For a man.
But I want to show the pelican, in its brown
kingdoms of air and its spiraling,
how to save itself
for a fish, it doesn’t have to die
the tlaquache, the javelina strung from a tree,
on my belly of all of Aztlan
who offed himself used to sleep in this bed
the spot that you’re in
But then it wouldn’t be a pelican
any more, a pelican, you said
About Joe: Joe Jiménez is the author of The Possibilities of Mud (Kórima 2014). Jiménez was the recipient of the 2012 Alfredo Cisneros del Moral Prize and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. He lives in San Antonio and is a member of the Macondo Workshops. Click here to learn more.