Pig Slaughter Poetry

I’ve always wanted to do a proper photo shoot of the annual pig slaughter in the village.

Not in its entirety. Never in its entirety. It would have to be snapshots taken out of its context.

I’d want to show the parts I’m seeing. The reduced down parts. Those tiny slivers of unreality, because turning something essentially ugly into something beautiful is impossible.

Every year I am thinking of different angles, because every year I notice different aspects. One year it was mainly the colours. Innards aren’t brown or grey, it´s all purples, blues and pinks.

And I never realised that vivid red existed until I saw it.

Another year it was the shapes. The texture of lungs, the membrane of the stomach which looks like lace, the way the large intestines are folded.

Last year it was the magnificent way the light shone through the open door of Villager M’s smoking shed where I had just helped hanging the chorizos. The sun rays diffracted due to the smoke. It was beyond perfect, as if Caravaggio had dreamed it up.

I never realised that seeing rows and rows of Spanish Sausage could reduce me to tears.

I’ll never forget that light.

One year it was the faces I found myself focusing on, an imaginary camera in hand. Smiles, frowns, wrinkles. Faces in mid emotion, annoyance, elation, tiredness.

I never realised that watching village pig slaughter would feel like watching a meticulously choreographed dance.

I’ve always been too eager to partake, wanting to be part of that dance.

Those pictures…maybe next year.

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