Turning, Burning

One moment a piglet
Sucks from his mother’s pink teat
The next roasting
Turning, burning
Licked by orange flame
Over a cauldron that hisses,
That spits
At the country fair
Its juices run down

And the crowd watches,
Salivates, anticipates
The sharpened knife that carves
The slivers of meat
Pealed from the bone
Soon they will be fighting
Over the final piece of crackling
While the farmer stands straight
Stands proud, looks on