Modern Meat

Poetry by | April 8, 2018

If the pig could talk, we’d be best friends.

Sadly here I am in the diner, partaking

of his broken flesh in solitude. Amidst

the frying rain and cooking oil

leaping from the pans in the kitchen

the afternoon chatter comes the way

it always has, the slow familiar haze

melting into noise I’d later find

once again in sleep. Hearing

has its downsides that no one says

are real or ever tells you, the least

of which that you must listen, use

what you have or let it fade away.

I might meet a word in my dreams

and ask if I could join the others,

or maybe melt their waxen wings

or even pluck them off their backs

to give to those who couldn’t fly,

by themselves or otherwise. Gladly

I’d give my own and sink to mud

if it meant that even pigs could see

that vast cerulean sky, or even my mind,

not that I’ve used it much these days,

that those sent to the slaughter could scream

before facing the blades,” Wait!”

And maybe lesser beings could rise,

could ask their biped overlords

to give them what was theirs by right.

Give them time. Give them life.



John Oliver Ladaga hailed from Iligan, but calls Davao his home, and UP Mindanao his alma mater. He memes in a desk.

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