poem

Ian Duhig Unmaking

Boar-hunting spears have a cross-piece to stop
a spitted beast driving up its shaft to the lord,
but in the Ritual of Unmaking it holds his cuts;
heart, liver, sweetmeats steaming like thurifers.

The inside of the boar’s skin serves as tablecloth
to feast the lord’s hounds on humbles and lights,
while a retained poet, silken in words and livery,
furnishes all his lord’s kills lavishly with meanings.

When rubbed the wrong way, their living bristles
stab back. Gorged on mast and fruit in ferment,
they brawl among themselves, can gut a horse.
Tusky tusky, they whisper, which means nothing.