I am a hunter this time.
When people ask me why I do it
I show them my teeth, the back ones,
the molars ground flat from clenching.
When people ask me what I'm looking for
I tell them, cocking my rifle,
I'll know it when it can't run anymore.
The buck goes down & I go down with it.
When I cut, I think about openings,
how a body will let you in whether it wants to or not.
The ribs spread like thighs, my hands slicken.
The steam comes up from the split belly like
a mouth gaping.
I reach in past the hot purse of organs,
the liver still shuddering,
until I am elbows-deep inside of him.
Sometimes, I still picture you dead.
I don't mean to.
Sometimes, I drive through parking lots
& watch them walk to their cars alone,
the ones who don't look over their shoulders.
Their thin necks, their soft bellies.
I think about the wet sound.
I remember your carcasses, the ones
that would swing & swing & swing,
blood thick as sap.
I am not the small thing anymore.
I have made myself into something with
a throat full of rust & a garage full of rope
& salt.
In my next life I will be bigger still.