Asleep in the back room, I feel the boar enter the kitchen. The front door creaks long; the sound betrays her; she thrusts her snout at its base. Her bulk is grey, brown, blue fading to black. The dark mass of night beyond the door presses her into the house. The paint on the front door is white and it peels as she enters. The door thuds against her body.
The kitchen lights, ordinarily warm, weaken in her presence. She lumbers — scuttles — heaves across the hardwood; her body makes it impossible to discern whether she changes position by the motion of legs so short they are hidden by her thick coat or if she is propelled instead by the sharp and wet grunts she emits through her throat. The floor’s varnish bubbles in her wake. The sound carries her from the threshold.
She turns and the flat of her nose finds the baseboards of the front wall. They too were white before her arrival. The boar’s tusks are thick browned ivory, flecked with splatter, muck or rotten flesh. The ivory stubs are uneven, dull, no less deadly because of it. As she moves, her tusks near the floor; from them emanates a clutter of dust, dirt, broken hair and fraying moth wings, wet with her snot, clotted in urine. Where her snout meets the floor – a constantly moving point – muck emerges, gathers, accumulates; it shifts and stirs, accumulates at the baseboards. Filth aggregates in her presence. She is not its harbinger. It was always there. She is simply its logic, its point of orientation.