It is bear season and the hounds
stalk the dark smell of bear,
plundering the fertile night.
The forest is muddled with fear
and even my dreams are ripples of sleep
scattered by the shouting dogs.
My son said they killed a bear this morning
just across the river—three shots
a bear with blue eyes he said
and I could see it then, the bear
strung up, belly slit open,
red organs spilling from the black-cloaked body
its sapphire eye glazed open
straight into mine.
There is no respite from the hounds
and the lust that unleashes them.
We will hunt everything down:
if it is rare, or precious
if its eyes burn with a fire we cannot claim—
We will comb the night for her jewels,
we will scour the dark for her beauty,
just to hold some mystery in our hands.