You can’t have the brains back—
sorry, Lady.
No way to know shards of skull
aren’t hiding in that soft, squirmy
mass of matter, like eggshell
in your breakfast scramble.
The captive bolt system does not leave
the brain intact, salvageable,
edible. If we shoot them instead,
the entire head turns burnt toast. Exploded
perhaps, or at least destroyed beyond the hope
of headcheese. So no boiling, no bubbling vat,
no snout peeking out
from the filmy broth. No peeling
of face-flesh or softened sinew,
no chopping
seasoning
pressing
cooling into a loaf for easy slicing:
charcuterie.
And anyway, the USDA
is squeamish about pig brains.
I’m glad I ate them years ago, in London,
as my smug Chef intoned—
full of the importance only a British man
teaching French cuisine can muster:
A pity for you Americans:
once you land stateside,
no more pig brains for you!
Back in the USDA:
Brains are dangerous, they say,
pig brains harbor disease. Forget
the delicate, egg-like texture.
Pigs are too much like us—
I am told. And I see this,
feel it, when I look in their eyes:
beady, dark,
sentient.
Alive.
