Ceremonial

To signal the start of the feast, 
the matriarch moves to the head of the table 
and hacks at the neck of the roasted pig
with the edge of her best porcelain plate. 
Why this is customary, no one remembers now. 
Like a priestess she continues down its glistening, 
caramel-colored back and the hot hiss released 
from beneath every square is a chorus of crisp
volcanoes. A child watches for anyone who might
choke on a bolus of cartilage so she can part 
their tresses for release. We are here 
with our long-held hungers, our dying 
for a taste. We go home with oily newspaper 
parcels, the ink of what has happened in the world
pooling into each morsel. Dizzy with pleasure,
we cannot tell when our mouths become raw,
and wake with the sensation of stampeding
beasts, released from the cage of our bodies.