blog description

Old women talk about old things: history, myth, magic and their
checkered pasts, about what changes and what does not.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Two Hunters

He wants to bring down the stag,

Unaware it’s meant to live.

females are expendable;

young males must live to propagate.


He flings it bleating into a bag

Eyes rolling, tongue askew --


‘it screams like a doe,’ he sneers,

with words that sound right in his ear.

But all his hunting is on video --

he doesn’t know.


I know a man who hunts,

Tracks triangular footprints through sere autumnal fields

Shotgun on shoulder, knife in hand

Taking life as dispassionately as god.


I’m not allowed to hunt by his side,

To steady throbbing neck

for knife’s cold kiss,

To inhale fog, burn landscape on my retina,

Seep cold into my bones,

Watch his broadshouldered back stalk life,

Because he doesn’t want me.


So I unwrap the bag and watch

As he unfolds himself, bolts free.


And now I wait at home,

Brew bitter soups of wormwood, comfrey and rue,

Soothe the fears of old and young

And huddle into winter,

Dreaming of dandelion greens, rose hips,

And blood glittering on grass like a benediction.


1 comment:

  1. The blood moon rolls toward us again, with stories of hunters and the hunted. Beautiful and terrible poem, my friend.