Jamón Iberico

We ate acorns
in mountain pastures;
our ancestors were wild boar.

Now
in our thousands,
we sway from wooden beams,
disembodied shanks
spiked with bristles,
dark hooves stretched
in grisly pirouettes.

But
we will not dance.

We will march,
united
in a mutant parade,
to ancient rhythms,
through night streets
heavy with orange blossom.

Watch
our teeth flash
like butchers’ knives
unsheathed.

Listen
as a battle roar erupts
from the collective chest
of our stampede -
the echoing applause
of a million castanets.

Know
we will not
stop

until
our victory is written
on the Giralda’s walls
in your gore,
your blood flows
like wine in the city's bars
and
human meat swings
from the Alcazar.

My name is Sus Scrofa Meridionalis
and I will have my vengeance.

 

© Caroline Imperatori

my pOetry menu

This poem was inspired by the cured hams hanging in Seville's tapas bars!