Dream of the Huntress

It is always the same:

she is standing over me

in the forest clearing,

a dab of blood on her cheek

from a rabbit or a deer.

I am aware of nothing

but my mutinous flesh,

and the traps of desire

sent to test it—

her bare arms, bare

shoulders, her loosened hair,

the hard, high breasts,

and under a belt

of knives and fish-lures,

her undressed wound.

Every night the same:

the slashed fetlock,

the buckling under;

I wake in her body

broken, like a gun.