Lauren Scharhag

content note: implied slaughter

There’s this dive that serves burgers and tenderloins

and a pig snoot sandwich —

police rookies are served the latter as a rite of passage.

They’ve been slinging snoot since the Depression era

when people were more appreciative

of the eat everything but the oink mentality.

Served on a bun, one nostril yellow with mustard,

the other red-orange with horseradish and hot sauce,

garnished with tomato and onion.

Pigs have exceptional senses of smell. 

It’s how they sniff out those elusive truffles.

I want the sandwich to reflect this sophistication,

but it’s fatty, spongy, though the horseradish

clears my own sinuses. As I chew it, 

I think of our road trip to Chicago, 

sister meatpacking city, a livestock truck on I-80 

hauling young piglets, dozens of tiny pink noses

thrust inquiringly through the slats like 

climbing vine roses, tasting the Iowa air.

is an award-winning poet and author. Her titles include Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. She lives in Kansas City, MO.