Cochinillo Asado

In the dusty museum, your people's
carved gods offer the soil on their faces

to scrutiny. They are poor 
in detail, compared to the other

displays where saints and royals
fan collars of lace and pantaloons

of velvet, crossing paths of red
brocade, their leather codpieces

shining like bloodstones. If you
have ever been told you are so good

at suffering, you know the answer is not 
to fold into a double fold. You are also

good at turning a pig on a spit; at tearing  
the glazed crackling with your teeth.


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