Whole Hog

At the dinner table I'm not allowed
to talk. Eat, son, my father commands, when
I use my mouth for anything but
food. When Mother asks what I did at school
today, I look at my father, sideways,
to make sure that he's got his mouth full,
and say, Nothin' much. Mother asks me if
I can be more specific. Yes, I say.
What's spe-cif-ic mean? Go into detail,
my father, who has just swallowed, tells me.
Oh, I say. But I don't elaborate.
Mother tries again. Tell us what you learned,
she says. Uh, I say. Uh? Uh's not knowledge,
Father says. He's a principal so he
should know. Well, I say, the capital
of Ecuador is Lima. No, wait--that's
Peru. The capital of Mexico
is Mexico City. The capital
of Canada is Ottawa. I spear
a piece of pork chop. What about other

subjects, Mother asks. I look to Father
again. Multiplication, I say. Ten
times ten is a hundred. Twenty-five times
twenty-five is, uh, I forget. If you
knew something once but forget it, does that
count as knowledge? Mother laughs, and I smile,
but Father says, No. No, it doesn't. That's
that, then. Please pass the potatoes, I say.
No, Father says. You don't eat enough meat
so you can't fill up on mashed potatoes.
I still have half a pork chop left. It's good
but if I eat too much meat I can't move
my bowels the next day. I'd like some more milk,
I say. No, he says. When you drink too much
you get up a lot at night and I need
my sleep. May I have another biscuit,
I ask. No again. They'll just make you fat.
May I be excused, I ask. Yes, you may,
he says, when you've cleaned your plate. No dessert
if you don't. What's for dessert, I ask. That's
moot, he says, unless you finish your meal.
What's moot mean, I ask. I thought it meant when
someone can't talk. Mother laughs again. I
smile again. No, Father says. It means, uh,
that something has no meaning. Dessert's got
meaning, I say. It means something sweet for
after supper. Like cake or ice cream or
pie or rice pudding. You don't get anything is
what it means, Father says. Don't talk so much
at the table. Your job here is to eat.
Not talk. Save your mouth for important things.
You can jabber away any time. I
stare at my pork and see the whole hog.
I wonder if he knew why he was born.
To be eaten, that's why he was born, but
that doesn't seem fair. Nobody asked him,
I bet. Father, I say, do animals
have feelings? Certainly, he says. Take you,

for example. Haw haw! That's a good one
on me--Father called me an animal.
My face is red. I poke at my pork chop.
It floats in a puddle of grease and blood.
Father sops up the last of his pork juice
with half a biscuit. He's cleaned his plate. It
looks as if it's never been eaten on.
It's as slick as the china we don't use
unless we have company. It's so bright
that Mother won't have to wash it. Of course,
she will. That's the difference between
grown-ups and kids. One of them, anyway.
Father lights a Tareyton. I swiped one
once to dissect it and examine its
charcoal filter. Real charcoal, too. No doubt
about it. Bring the ashtray here, he says.
It's near enough to being excused so
I go after it and by the time I
return I hope that he's forgotten me
enough to forget he hasn't excused
me. No such luck. Thank you, son,
he says. Now sit. I cut a piece of flesh

and put it in my mouth and slowly chew.
Mother lights a Carlton --"Lowered tar and
nicotine." Smoke hangs over the table.
I see pictures in it, like in the clouds.
If you don't finish your supper, he warns,
you'll go to bed straightaway. His last words
come out in puffs, smoke for each syllable.
Okay, I say. I mean, Yes, sir. I can't
finish it. I want to go to my room
anyway but I can't let on I want
to because if he senses that then he'll
think of something else for me to suffer.
He'll teach me a lesson anyway so
it might as well be one that's less unfair.
Go to your room, he says, rubbing out his
cigarette. Yes, sir, I say. Thank you, God
is what I really mean. In my bedroom

I read a comic book. They don't like them
because they warp my mind. The comic book,
I mean. Green Lantern has a power ring
that he got from the Guardians of Oa,
where people have green faces and big heads
and blonde hair and little bodies, like me
--I mean I have a little body, too.
He catches a criminal in a net
he's willed his power ring to make, and then
leaves him for the cops in a green jail-cell
--the criminal, I mean, not the coppers.
I put him away when I hear Father's
steps on the stairs. He stands in the doorway.
I'm disappointed in you, son, he says.
You don't do what I tell you. Well, sometimes
I do, I say. Usually. Almost

always. That's not good enough, he says. No
allowance for two weeks. He turns around
and goes down. That means no more comic books
for a while, so I pick up Green Lantern
again, look at the pictures, and pretend
that there are no words in the word balloons
so I'll have to make a story up and
be content that way. I've got some scissors,
plastic, not metal, but they serve--I cut
the panels out and rearrange them so
I can write my own Green Lantern story.
I've just destroyed my comic book, but then
I've made a new one. It doesn't make sense
but neither does my life. If I look hard

between one panel and the next I see
what's missing. If I could draw I'd draw it.
For now I'll try to write what I can't say.
I have a rubber decoding ring from
my corn flakes box. I turn it on myself
and say, Make me Father and Father me
for five minutes and that will be justice.

Of course it doesn't work--that's how it does.