For a minute,
the sacred pig slips
out of my hands, snout
lurching and lurching
above water.
What I catch is a bald pink
impulse, the jab of its
hooves.
But I wash us, as required,
let the Agean clean away,
as they say, my profane life.
I have not slept
with Nicanor for two days,
seven more to go,
according to the rules.
Under water, it is
as if I were a child,
dreaming of flying,
but this pig in my arms
lacks faith!