portifino//the boar is looking at me and breathing. burlap sides expanding. this is not a pig, it is a boar. it is burlap brown and its face horrendous. alien awful. we are staring at each other. staring. i have no idea what animals think like. it looks away, draws a circle in the dirt. rummages in some leaves, finds a wooden disk about the same size as the circle, moves it along with his snout. stares again. there it is. boar. it wants me to know about the circles, thats clear. and the circles rhyme. rhyme. oh yes the world rhymes! i rememeber.
boar, core, door, before.
a beast, a center, a change, a time...will i go like that?
theres more: pore, sore, soar, pour.
mustard makes her cry, the memory of her home mustard premortared makes her cry, and she rolls the r, crrrrry, so you feel it. her eyes black outlined, she draws on her eyes so i can see her seeing me.
the boar is a car with wash me on the windows. i go to pour sweet smelling soap water down its side, dripping into his pores which are golf hole huge when i become little. but my bucket is empty, and both ways are blocked; my bicycle is surrounded by bees, four of them, flying in and out of the frame silently. strange to not hear them, to only hear wind and her crying and the boars words in my head,
more, roar, four, gore.
what is this? what fantasy does this become? if i coax her crying to a lion roar, then may i pass? i dont want gore, no gore in my life.
theres a scratch on my leg.