to discover himself buried in a forest,
near a tree, not deep enough to never be found,
but within snout range of a truffle hunting pig.
How he came to be where he was,
trapped and in need of olfactory rescue
was never a part of the dream,
and is unimportant to this poem.
The facts are: a man died, or is dying,
has some level of consciousness,
enough to be aware of a tree, its species,
oak, one of several associated with the presence
and proliferation of truffles, and therefore
creates the possibility of a pig discovering him,
his body, alive or not, and uprooting him
in its belief that he, the man, is a giant truffle.
There’s no reason attached to his being
underground. No hint of politics. Or murder.
There’s a sense that the man is happy there
in a spare heaven, replicated many times over,
but with a likelihood, remote and unthreatening,
of a hoof-led snout parting the world below,
and the light above glowering as it darkens
the new life he has come to know as his.
Richard Weaver lives in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, and acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college. He ‘s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press). Publications include conjunctions, Poetry, NAR, crazyhorse, Pembroke, NER, Southern Quarterly, Adelaide, Barrow Street, Steel Toe, and elsewhere.
From Issue 20: A Man Woke