I have been a wild boar.
--Taliesin, Welsh 11th Century
His scent is lost inside the oldest trees where bark tusks once
gouged now circles the trunk's deep core.
Seven centuries back, small oaks shake around him, ferns turn belly-up
and thick spit flies off his tusks until the spear knocks him to
slender, awkward knees. His spine slopes into the ground like a moraine
heaped by retreating glaciers.
All winter, the cured flesh hangs hangs in salted skeins from the
rafters like drying fishing lines.
He carves a razor from the tusk and shaves his beard for her.
Seven centuries gone, boar paths stamped across hills still lure me, a
bedrock restlessness I follow until my violence is spent, running after
nothing I've seen, pursued by nothing I've known, through oak
forests turned to fields eaten flat by sheep.