Romancing a Pot Belly Sow

Black eyes are sublime, hooded by frayed ears,

as if peering through a shaman’s comb;

dissecting and blurring

everything changes,

behind her veil, her curtain.

Back-hair is a springy hedge

and, every time a person whispers,

she turns to listen;

more inquisitive than most

who lay and snort in the sun.

Front legs are pretty as a ballerina,

delicate and curvy,

on point. Her face,

elongated, has that quality

of a knowing smile

beneath a tasteful snout,

a bit like flexible hose;

short and smooth,

snuffling like a snorkel:

so sweet, so fat, so slow.