REFLECTIONS ON WILD BOAR
JIM DANIELS
1. Why Did the Wild Boar Cross the Road?
I expected them to announce
themselves, ring a bell, but they just
appeared like their own rugby scrum
on the road in front of me.
I tumbled off my bike in shock
while they glanced at me and shrugged
their broad shoulders—even the little ones
and their littler shoulders as they casually
crossed the narrow road. Around me,
low mountains shrugged their enormous shoulders
and clouds shrugged their wispy shoulders.
I landed on my right shoulder, a sharp stone
tearing my jersey, denting my skin,
a sliver of blood oozing. Wild boars,
you can’t expect them to call first.
They just show up and expect you
to be ready. Just let me tidy up a bit
first, I would have said. They disappeared
across the road. The woods closed behind them
not even shrugging.
2. Ambivalent Ode to Wild Boar
Wild boars roam relentless
on the one-lane two-way roads
of rural France. Who could love
the coarse fur, the stubborn swagger,
their large litters trailing shit
and trampled crops?
Blunt boulders, they will trash
your vehicle and your confidence
in the moon’s headlight.
My neighbor Christophe makes
boar foie gras—I spread it on toast
and salivate, despite wanting to hate it.
He eats every part of the boar. Feeds six
hunting dogs when he only needs four.
Keep heat low and cook slow.
A family of them knocked me off my bike
the other day, shocked by their cameos
in the starless movie of my life.
I could have used a band-aid or two.
They could use a predator or two.
Even the babies were not cute.
They disappeared into the woods
where all fairy tale villains go.
The rest of get back on our bikes
to continue our journeys.
The rest of us eat them
when we can.
3. Interlude with Christophe’s Hounds
We slump on our porch watching rain erupt
in endless sheets downhill and downstream,
plunging from the gutter I repaired
that’s leaking again. Darkness rushed
by the hoarse breath of wind shoving black
clouds overhead, roughing up trees. But
still we hear the baying of Christophe’s hounds
he feeds each night at 7. Brown, floppy
thumping off each other to get their unhunted
share. Oh, I can’t see them from here,
but I’ve seen them plunging chaos through woods
chasing wild boar as they’ve been taught
by Christophe, our friend and neighbor living
on a farmer’s margin. He won’t like this rain
pummeling his grapes and how it might
turn into hail. He’s tossing food to the dogs.
I can’t see it, but I’ve seen it before. Getting
our overly generous share of rain, the narrow
creek below erupting over its banks. Still,
somebody has to feed the dogs.
We got out while the getting was good
enough, retiring, growing nothing.
Wild boars rampant, no predators.
Thus, the hounds. Thus, large freezers
for meat. Stews, roasts. We don’t hunt. We rely
on the baying clock of Christophe’s hounds
in sunshine or rain to tell us it’s time to eat.
Getting your share. Scars from fighting
over scraps. Grateful not to be closer
to the hounds and their chaotic longing.
Or, maybe we should be closer.
Why are we sad in this flood?
Why aren’t we baying anymore?
4. The Tidiness of Wild Boars
digging a hole to drop their scat
letting me know they have been down
to drink at the dribbling stream
next to the abandoned potato field
where my two fig trees grow
in memory of Pierre
who planted them the year
before death surprised him
knocked him off his harvester
picking the last grapes of 2019
two weeks before his plane ticket
to see us in Pittsburgh. The next year,
his family picked that field
by hand, even grandchildren,
even his estranged brother.
Christine, his widow, said only this once,
fending off a family tradition in the making.
I didn’t ask why. They weren’t believers
and she didn’t pretend to know
what the dead might want.
Even Pierre. When he wanted some
thing, he really wanted it. No half-
way in him. He groomed his own
fig tree like a favorite horse.
He cut a plastic bottle in half,
attached it to a stick, inserted
a razor to cut the high figs
into the bottle and save them for jam.
We pestered him for a cutting
and he finally gave us two
in case one died. They linger
like two small dogs on the edge
of the field. I’ve been telling the boars
to leave them alone. So far, they seem
to be listening, but I wouldn’t presume
to speak for boars. If they get hungry
enough, they eat anything. No one
knows how long he’d been lying
beside the harvester before his son
found him asleep forever
on that fertile ground. His thick hand
could swallow anyone’s in warm greeting
as if the earth itself was rising
in welcome. He did not read the stars.
He read the clouds and wind.
We returned the year after he died
and broke bread with the extended
family. Though no one saved
a seat for him, his absent laugh
pricked us in the awkward silence.
How did I get from the boars
to Pierre on this cool November night
after the harvest is in? The boars.
At least they put their shit in a neat hole.
They have to eat and drink
like the rest of us. They can have
one fig tree, but not both.
Jim Daniels’ latest book, The Luck of the Fall, fiction, was published by Michigan State University Press in July. Recent poetry books include The Human Engine at Dawn, Wolfson Press, and Gun/Shy, Wayne State University Press. A native of Detroit, he currently lives in Pittsburgh.
