based on the painting “Prince Pig and The Second Sister” by Paula Rego

my hooves meant nothing

to her. She sat in my lap and stroked my chest
as if she was the

prince. It took everything in her power to reassure me
that I wouldn’t be slaughtered in the morning, but she looked
past me – an empty

gaze. Come dinnertime tomorrow I would sit on a platter and
she would feed off of me with an apple stuffed in my mouth
and a knife in

my shoulder. On some level, I cannot blame her – her hair is
caught between my hooves when we make love, and my grunting
keeps her up at night. She is worthy of soft fur

and slender fingers. I am desired, but only until I am fat enough to eat.
Her legs tighten on my hips but she is cold, like the chamber where
my blood will drain.