As oil blisters in the cast iron pan, my dog does
adoring prostrations at my feet and the pale pink chops
with their arc of rib and ribbon of fat lie innocently
on the white bone china we bought at Macy’s
where my wife asked the salesclerk what kind of bones
the dishes were made from and the woman confessed
she had no idea, though surely they were crushed
from sorrowful creatures. Everything you do will cause
harm, so I start forgiving myself now.  And this pig
was a happy pig, and his death, though death, 
was good. I’ve boiled up his vertebrae, femurs
and fibulae, his head and his hocks 
and now the stock is cooling, the creamy lard rising
to the top like a thick slab of heaven. When these
choice cuts hit the skillet, the hiss and spit is
a lullaby that’s soothed homo sapiens
since the discovery of fire. And lured the dogs
into the circle, shoulders hunched toward the flames.
As meat sears and butter bubbles, that sizzling
tells us all will be well. The egg will be released
from the ovary, the swaddled infant will suck.
There will be mayhem and there will be bliss,
and stuffed into every cell of our bodies,
that deep craving for grease.