Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

              was what they called us,
the children of dissidents,
              the gusanos: Pigs, swine.

Cochinitos when we picked
              our noses in mixed company
or soiled our underwear.

              The diminutive is sweeter
sounding. Puerco, if we
              did something disgusting,

like throw up because
              we often gagged on the bad
food the Revolution provided.

              They said you catholic pigs
pray for food and we'd pray,
              yet out of the cafeteria

nothing came. Its swinging
              doors still on their hinges,
then they told us to ask Fidel

              and the Revolution for our daily
bread, and we shouted
              and the food appeared in carts.

We learned to accept this new
              label - hunger knows no dignity.
We sat and ate as quickly as we dared.

              Now, all that past, twenty five
years ago, and we still gather
              from Miami to Los Angeles,

Christmas eve, United States,
              the ritual of the open pit
on the ground, pig roasting.

              We slaughter, we roast,
the drippings sizzle, our
              hearts grow content, tender,

at the thought that we've made
              it through another year of exile.
So we open another beer,

              take a cool swig, taste the crunchy
and delicious, crispy skins.
              Good stuff. On the stereo

the music of Cuba, long ago.
              Pork rinds, sweet and tasty,
some say we've come so far

              to eat so well. We savor
all the meanings in the flesh
              of this beast called cochino.