Pig Farmer's Honeymoon

Stephanie Dickinson

He, a muscled, Copenhagen snuff chewer, led her to the bed that smelled of
coal dust, window rags and Aqua Velva, and, she, naked for the first time
since her husband died, the wire-rimmed 

intellectual, a long sorrow of glasses and bones in Rogers Grove 
Cemetery, pulled up the blanket to hide the smudged blue veins on her
thighs, covered the soft fall of her breasts, her nipples 

bloody as mulberries, from God's stare in the head of this pig farmer and
meat packer. She saw it stiff, huge, his own eyes 
admiring it before sliding it into her like his fork would be lifted 

at supper, heaped with lima beans, shoving it into the moisture, 
not looking, the same every night, the three-bean salad, creaking in the hot
room, reeking of his overalls, a drop of snot like sweet 

vinegar like unholy water leaking into his mouth. He, used to the frantic
lowing of cows, the wild grunts of sows, moaned, squealing, and she,
fingering the wiry hair of his back, laughed.
-- the Last Duchess too easily made glad.

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