I’m a hog for ya, honey
but your doors are bolted tight,
so I hit the highway drivin’ hard
like a woman who needs life fast,
whose face has been tight too long
hittin’ too many locked doors.

I’m a hog for ya, honey
meetin’ some out of town man
who tells me the difference
between men who can raise pigs
and men who can butcher.

I’m a hog for ya, honey
in the arms of some man
who is safe ’cause he isn’t
going to stay, who tells me
about the pain of raisin’ a hog
just to shoot it in the head,
who holds his temples
talkin’ of the death dance
a hog does goin’ down,
hittin’ the ground for the last time,
blood and mud what your love
and time has come to.

I’m a hog for ya, honey
seein’ Mr. Chenier chase hogs
through Louisiana fields,

watching women recite recipes
for hog head cheese,
their arms buried bloody
in a tub of hog innards
to make long, lean sausage
to get them through winter.

I’m a hog for ya, honey
hearin’ brown armed poets
talk of boyhood rituals,
droppin’ hog heads
through Wisconsin ice,
risking punishment for waste
to acknowledge manhood.

I’m a hog for ya, honey
images of East Texas barbecues
flashin’ through my mind,
feelin’ Louisiana hot sauce
and the tenderness
of out of town men
who cannot butcher.

I’m a hog for ya, honey.

(After I’m a Hog for You, by Clifton Chenier)