Sunday, 15 April 2012

14: Boared

Can’t we say we hulked our heft
onto the spines of wild boar, lashed
spurs like Polaris to our heels, and

kicked? The boar bristled and thundered
upon the earth with monsoon feet.
The plains raised their glasses, said

It’s been a long, dry December, so
let’s raise a checkered flag
for the champagne mist to moisten.

The fog fell upon my cheekbones
and the boar tramped on to a field of
wild garlic grass waving like

Hawaiian goodbyes. Can’t we say we
ate it and wow, it was good? Can’t we
say you weren’t afraid of the germs?

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