A sow stands short-shackled
to a concrete floor decked with
shit-smelling piss-soaked wooden slats.
She shifts and struggles, wrenches
with sumo neck an unbreakable chain,
lurches in slow motion
against immovable bars.
Her agitation over, she settles back
to standing still, slurps at an iron bar
for absent minerals, waits for her
session on the rape rack, a term
the men use with an ugly smile.
Ten thousand live here, from
day-old piglets to sows worn out
by never-ending pregnancy.
They lie, wedged between bars,
slumped on their colossal sides,
while regiments of newborn piglets suckle
with clipped teeth.