Granted, this tasty slab of ribs is long past her/its days as a living creature, but cast your thoughts back to her/its once-upon-a-time animalhood.
Is this what she/it dreamt of, to become merely a piece—a portion—of herself/itself? Bizarre as it is to contemplate such a world, surely this is the only thing that makes sense. How else to explain the form she/it has taken and the state she/it is in? So composed, at ease, sanguine.
For who else did her/its makeup? No union specializes in the application of cosmetics to pork ribs. She/it put on her/its own face.
And then there are those Mary Janes and the feet crossed in extravagant casualness at the ankle.
The fork held aloft as though she/it is so tender—as she/it knew she/it would be—that she/it wants the first bite. Such refined sensibilities! In life, this must have been one demure pig: who eats ribs with a fork? Behavior like that would get you summarily dismissed from the Royal Order of the Grill Corps(e).
And then of course, there's that shrug, that half-smirk—here is the clincher. This is an expression of satisfaction. Everything has proceeded according to plan. And, really, isn't this the only way to dine? On food that was once a sentient being desiring nothing more than the smoky release of death? Wanted it so fervently that it is only in death that she/it can finally experience true happiness?