Love Poem

Be my Circe, my witch,
transform me, send me down
grunting to the forest floor.

Watch my curly pink corkscrew
twirl to itself
as I ram my snout

into moist places, ditches,
in roots, snuffling
for the prize, for the wet truffle.

I’ll live on all fours,
languageless, lazy, your prize pig,
a beauty bred for its meat.

First published in The Erotic Review, 2008
2007 © A F Harrold