Night of the Pig

We smash the ceramic pig
on a still April night.

I prepare the hammer
and you prepare the pig,

green, hollow, its snout
as big as a beer stein.

There is no incantation,
but the ceremony

has a queer flow that we lose
ourselves in.

The crashing, the release, the empty last gasp.
The pieces and shards that will remain.

Consequences of the
porcine nocturne.





Pfefferle, W.T. “Night of the Pig,” Cottonwood 65 (Spring 2007) 21.