a loose portrait of pigs

all pigs are made of straw
or was that horses? i take all
my precious jems & dip them in 
a thick batter to be fried.
we talk about what oil is best
for frying. the pigs have 
blown away entirely. the wind 
is a series of ghost animals
their parts mixed togehter. duck bill
dog leg. fish tail trutle brain.
i believe it's vegetabe oil
& i picture a leek crying its 
loose golden tears into a pan.
there were never any pigs. i want
an onion ring to wear around
my largest finger. the onions
are petaling apart. i have only
two items passed down to me 
from a grandmother. here is a gold necklace
& here is a pair of clip on earrings.
i make them crispy & fresh.
i once had a boyfriend who liked to
fry flowers. brought the sunflower oil
to a sparkling heat before 
dropping them in. i am not thankful enough
to so many people but especially the ones
who collect lard from the bottom of pans.
my mom does this & the fat turns white
in the little mason jar 
on the back of the stove. 
i miss the pigs. i will lure them back
with these fried trinkets.
all pigs are full of diamonds.
i leaned against a wire pig pen 
as the creatures laid against each other.
they slept like great vats of oil.
their tongues were thick as wrists.
what oil did my grandmothers use
on their wedding rings? an onion
is a kind of sharp prayer
turned translucent in heat.
my skin is all onion as are my bones.
i remove the slithering onion
from its batter case.
i hold the onion loop up to the light
& peer right through it
to see all the animals standing steady 
trying to last through 
the next solid gust of wind.