The Ear as Rifle

Tania Van Winkle

When he sleeps

I go hunting

 

for the duration of a cigarette

beneath the bare bulb

 

porch light, never stepping from

inside its limited reach.

 

In the darkness

out beyond where the front walk

 

ends, they are there;

ginger steps.  Each footfall

 

the sounds that leaves make

as they freeze.  Steps one

 

by one a chest tightening

bone crackle of leaves

 

decomposing.  A cautious

time-lapsed

 

sound of hooves.

I know they are out there

 

just past the ridge of trees

waiting,

 

listening for me to make a move.

They never come

 

into my crescent of light.  Pine

needle and leaf all

 

will cease before

we ever meet.



 


 

 

Copyright © 2009 Switchback
All works property of their respective owners