The Hunt

[beaufort]

Your wanting suffocates me, I cannot breathe.
Gasping and panting I back away
and you, unseeing, move forward.
This dance no longer a dance,
but a chase.

Prey not on me, I am not your quarry;
you, a hunter like all the rest,
your vest stained with blood,
bullets falling from your coat,
the power you seek is not here.

Mount my head on your wall
beside the elk from Alberta -
perhaps others will admire
your manliness;
tell them the story of how I lay naked
exposing my neck to you,
and you did not show mercy.

Fabricate my ferocity.
Flatter yourself and your fat fingers
dimpling around the knife sheath,
as if taking life gives it to you.