The hunter’s bullet lodges in my side like the pin bones of salmon wedged in the back of my throat.
My life balances on the border between my favorite comfort foods, and the blade of the taxidermist.
You would make me into a trophy, gutted and cured to become an ornament, in your seasonal hunting cabin.
Raw honeycomb, Caribou marrow, salmon roe stuck to my tongue, psalms of my home made flesh,
call me back into my survival instincts for my sleeping children.
She who outruns deer & devours strong bucks with antlers the size of sequoias could not outrun the champion sprinter,
American made bullets.
But when you realize your rumpus disturbed wild things, there is no time to reload. You brought a potluck into the den of a slumbering mother with cubs.
My teeth are agonizingly real And my jaws are in your belly, rooting for the lost rib of Adam.