September's Hunter

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
An older piece, reflective.

Submitted: July 14, 2014

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Submitted: July 14, 2014

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Pairs of eyes peer in, ears against cracks, of my private nook of the universe, they indulge on every last crumb with your name as subject topic. I feed their hunger, concoct scenarios and tales that once happened in my mind; your character plays his part well, and opinions are made. Let them tell me about my decisions, let them decide feats, or celebrate my cooked victories.

You are real, not fiction. You’re just away; away working ranches, for months on end under dry heat with callused hands with dirt under those nails, the ones I begged you to wash before entered your own kitchen, and pushed hair behind my ear as you traced my jaw line for a soft kiss. We could play house every day, you said. We could live like this forever, but you were always away. So we didn’t.

You were just away tracking elk in cool dark woods, bear in the thick of a mountain, deer in the wide valley, a sheep in the desert. I imagined your stealth skill analyzing every snapped branch, imprint on the earth following a specific creature that haunted you for years. You’d stay as long as it takes, for pride or prize, I don’t remember which.

Pair of blue eyes glanced into my heart, you kissed my forehead,“Maybe September” was the answer to my question the last time. September came and went, no word, no hushed voice behind me, no more. I often wonder what forest you may be in, and which woman took you hostage. I planned for a strawberry rhubarb on a Sunday, and your lace up boots at the front door. Just as it had been for two years; but it faded away just like September. 

One year later, I still wait for you. Foolish, in a different state and time; you're never coming  home, you are no longer were no longer mine. I pretend you are back on tour, or being the great hunter, we both know you are. I saw you on a magazine, holding your prize or pride, I never could remember which; my heart sank low to make Sunday rhubarb pie. 


© Copyright 2020 Beatrice Bee. All rights reserved.

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