Carol Ann Duffy - Circe lyrics

I'm fond, nereids and nymphs, unlike some, of the pig, of the tusker, the snout, the boar and the swine. One way or another, all pigs have been mine - under my thumb, the bristling, salty skin of their backs, in my nostrils here, their yobby, porky colognes. I'm familiar with the hogs and runts, their percussion of oinks and grunts, their squeals. I've stood with a pail of swill at dusk, at the creaky gate of the sty, tasting the sweaty, spicy air, the moon like a lemon popped in the mouth of the sky. But I want to begin with a recipe from abroad which uses the cheek - and the tongue in cheek at that. Lay two pig's cheeks, with the tongue, in a dish, and strew it well over with salt and cloves. Remember the sk**s of the tongue - to lick, to lap, to loosen, lubricate, to lie in the soft pouch of the face - and how each pig's face the cowardly face, the brave, the comical, noble sly or wise, the cruel, the kind, but all of them, nymphs, with those piggy eyes. Season with mace. Well-cleaned pig's ears should be blanched, singed, tossed in a pot, boiled, kept hot, scraped, served, garnished with thyme. Look at that simmering lug, at that ear, did it listen, ever, to you, to your prayers and rhymes, to the chimes of your voice, singing and clear? Mash the potatoes, nymph, open the beer. Now to the brains, to the trotters, shoulders, chops, to the sweetneats slipped from the slit, bulging, vulnerable bag of the balls. When the heart of a pig has hardened, dice it small. Dice it small. I, too, once knelt on this shining shore watching the tall ships sail from the burning sun like myths; slipped off my dress to wade, breast-deep, in the sea, waving and calling; then plunged, then swam on my back, looking up as three black ships sighed in the shallow waves. Of course, I was younger then. And hoping for men. Now, let us baste that sizzling pig on the spit once again.