The Hunt

 

 

She arranged her breasts as offerings to the night:

Lifting and presenting them in lacy cups

And set out to stir the sauce.

Salty and thick, some wine for headiness, she added oregano and took out the no.

She was going hunting.

The prey was so beautiful: curved and elegant, haunches still young, and eyes, eyes

So filled with information

About things she never knew she wanted to know.

She sat with him and the other guests and lowered the table so the eyes of the

guests were on each other

And no one knew what was happening in the other world

The underworld.

The world where his leg was so stretched out to her that her ankle became a radar

communicator,

A depth sounder,

Two centimeters until you hit bottom.

Above board there were still rules

But in the underworld of love

There were none.

It was hot.

The dinner grew and the outside doors opened and vines and sweet fog came in

From the garden,

And one man asked his dinner companion to open her mouth.

There was a type of music playing.

The table was lifting and desert was so sweet no one could remember anything

But the taste of it in their mouths.

No one wanted to remember anything.

There was a beating,

A loud beating,

Not irregular in sound.

Perhaps there was lightness and perhaps not.

Then, a terrible sadness fell over her as the hunt ended.

The beat was slowing.

There was disengagement.

She released the prey

Without hurting his mouth,

Resulting in a wound to her heart.

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