The Hunt

The stubby black-jowled dog inside me growls
and drools and warns and plants its crooked feet,
legs quivering, brindle chest staunched, and howls
until approachers back off in defeat,
although a brilliant poacher sometimes cows
my dog, my heart, its bitten hope, with meat,
flung viscera my tamed dog mauls
and then protects, well guarding what I eat
while poacher raises rifle: he follows
my deer into my wood, calling me dear, fleet
beauty, and I run, wholly my wild soul,
while the dumb, bristled dog I too am prowls,
guarding empty gate and empty street
till hunter becomes me, and we repeat.

Copyright © 2002 Molly Peacock All rights reserved
from Cornucopia
W. W. Norton
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission