The Wild Boar

Rooting down, star-nosed,
snuffling for grubs,
breasts wet
with the gelatine of milk,

she is a muted sow,
a warrior—
still, dark animal,

Her tusks, wild
as rosebushes,
plunge in, slicing—

then out from the current,
intact.  Scent of blood,
wild yarrow in the air.

When he shoots her,
one thought,
clear as a pellet

in the centre of her mind
is a crashing
back to the scented herd,

charging slowly
through her own blood.

Now she hangs,
still furious, on the wall.
Monstrous in her beauty,

her eyes of glass
have forgotten the place
she was running to.

This poem first appeared in Contemporary Verse 2, 35.1