from THE BIRD ARTIST
In dreams, the hunter comes at dawn, dragging a rifle across the grass.
A trail of blood and a pheasant fat with maggots. Eggs shake
on a high shelf. The selves we thought to invent grow dodgy
with spoiled milk and infants at both teats. The hunter that eats his way
through pantries and icebox, through bedroom sets and lace underthings.
Frightens the cat who, one day, eats her stillborn kittens down to bones.
So much birthing and dying overnight, it makes us mad. Frothing over tea
and speaking in tongues. Dead things everywhere, even in our boots.
Red in my hair, my mouth, my hands where I hold the babies
in the river to save their souls from their father's boots. From the stench of rotted deer
that emanates from his throat night after night. The wheezing sound that precedes
his waking and roaming hands. The silence that places a palm
around my throat and squeezes til it all goes black.
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