Untitled Sonnet #17

Of lowest creatures we pretend disgust,
So that our hidden wound may never spread,
Revealing bloated meat and bony thrust,
Or slip from eager mouth the mask of dread.
But you with lips shut tight in nettled smile,
Who feed us lies with all too vestal slop,
And make a sty where angels would beguile,
And drive the pig to slaughter with your crop:
You who would slice the shadow’s boneless ham,
Displayed and glazed with honey o’er the fat,
And 'round that cut would wrap your prim madame,
And fling the scraps in allies for the rats:
  Pity yourself, and watch this glutton be,
  To eat raw flesh, beside herself with glee.


By Valerie Bane