For a Sassy Sow Who Abandoned Her Savor to Discover Her Flavor
Overshadowed by Aphrodite’s heady pungent sweet fruit
lauded by Petrarch in his Ninth Sonnet of Rime,
a fungus-sniffing sow named Jeanette Antoinette
once perfected a fanciful, alluring earth-rooting dance
following thunderclaps ‘cross wooded country plateaus
of temperate Dordogne in southwestern France.
First retired, she often longed for the musky terre brûlé
past chalk-white stone churches, fortified chalets, and chateaus.
But gone is the foraging and plowing her snout
through mossy leaf clutter and juniper shrubbery
‘neath a canopy of majestic pines and towering oaks,
neglected by progress disguised as misguided drudgery.
Noble forests divinely conceived before the Hundred Years’ War
abandoned for seven-year-old saplings in unremitting rows
coppiced from manipulated, inoculated hazelnut stock.
Our sow, she decided to forego her work sorrow and woes –
She determined she would not be sad with her loss
for it had become rather gauche,
rather pedestrian for a lady to dig –
common sport for mixed-breed mongrel hounds
and even one cross-eyed pot-bellied pig!
So what’s a proper Pompadour damsel to do?
But give up the leash, the staff, and that sort,
Just turn away with a dignified sigh...and a snort
for more decadent commerce in pork for morels.
Succulent chandeliers of blue and brown chanterelles
now dangle like glistening dew drops from her elegant ears;
she keeps her ungulate tips scarlet and well-manicured
for the more delicate, more refined decoupage arts.
With her peccary proclivities she has successfully lured
many well-bred gentlemen boars and society swine.
With a sophisticated palate accustomed to fine French wine
further honed on tasty Terefezia pulled from exotic dark sands
blanketing Baghdad, Izmir, and other far-off desert lands,
she now prefers slices of the aromatic Tuber magnatum,
cream-fleshed madonnas marbled with veins of stark white
imported from Alba nestled in the Piedmont of Itaia –
Any confusion with Tuscany’s pico or borchii just wouldn’t be right!
Best shaved over foie gras or into an amorous consommé
of black trumpets and celery hearts paired with a delicate rosé.
She lounges on a fainting couch constructed from fodder
as sweet nothings tumble precariously out of full cherry-red lips;
she adjusts her corset carefully with cloven hooves
all the better to accentuate the voluptuous curve of her hips.
She will slip you a sly grin if ever on her you may spy
sipping chocolate laced with ambergris and vanilla,
not diverting her attention from scanning her sty
keeping close watch over her bucolic bacchanalia.