My Human Disguise.
No one knows the golden boar hound's mother,
If she’s boar or hound, or mythic Other.
He was found scratching at our farmhouse door
And though quick to accept a wooden cage,
Was soon released, being more hound than boar,
Nothing to fear, with his eyes of great age.
His eight fleecy legs (some seemed more like arms)
Caused him to stumble and sometimes crawl,
A monster, yes, though not without his charms.
His tusks could draw images, like an awl,
Scrapping planks or smooth stone, which he would hide
(Though we could always find them when we tried)
About the farm — scenes from the past, our past.
The day he left we feared would be our last.
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