R.M.

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Tag Archives: hunting

Deer

25 Monday Nov 2019

Posted by racheltejas in Meditations and Poetry, Melancholia

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Tags

animals, Artemis, Formal Poem, guns, hunting, metaphysics, myth, poem, poetry, violence

Deer

On Sundays I am alone.
The thick grey cat, huge,
obscenely beautiful,
sits as a centerpiece
for an empty table.
Her eyes are lime
and define the landscape
of her wild body.
Wing-tips chartreuse, gold,
a parrot glows
before the rains.

Always mystery
is without description,
the description itself
a defilement,
and so is merciless
and cruel
as a God might be
on a winter Sunday morning.

I want to empty everything
to lie in emptiness
in a cold empty room –
Purity & cleanliness,
white ribs
beneath pale skin –
my veins are tendrils
unfurling to an empty heart.

A phone was silenced on my hip
but kept there just in case
a child fell and bruised her lip,
from Mother’s mouth to her face –

an airy kiss displaced.

Dishes, clothing, countertops
Jamilla on repeat,
the phone relays a message:
a photograph, somehow already
an old story of power and defeat:

a boy, his gun,
and his draining deer,
eyes undone
from the lock of life
by Daddy,
giving to his son
a scope to steady shaking fear,
love, now, the uncocked click
and its release.
Make it clean and neat,
ignore her stumbling feet.

I do not know this child
but the deer I do
I wish he were something wild
and death could find him too.

I did not erase
the photograph.
That sly smile
obliterates
that baby face.

A mixed up fucked up number
a child misdialed in glee:
“Look what I did friends,
track, listen, see..
finger on the trigger…”

No.
I do not know him.
Though on this Sunday
alone and clean and bare,
his kill
is my prayer.

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Pelican

03 Sunday May 2015

Posted by racheltejas in Meditations and Poetry, Travel

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Tags

beaches, flight, free verse, hunting, music, pelicans, poem, poetry, ritual

Pelican

The sun brings one, then another;
later, a trailing afterthought,
their late-waking companion crests
the beach palms, outstretched wings
like arms collecting flowers
only to drop them, with folded limbs, to the sea.
In friendly communion they dive the diamond waters,
each following each,
as if hunting requires
a mysterious humility, a secret decorum,
which, I suppose, it does.
Before submergence, a lifted breath,
the silence increasing
as it does with the commencement
of any ritual or sacrifice
or, perhaps, the moment before
a bow strokes a string,
the wings and waves and watchful eyes
an ancient partita
begun all those millions of years ago
in the overture of cooling grasslands.
With each emergence, the sleek, sated
completed dance, necks rolling then curving enviably inward
to sleepy stillness, a cruel repeating harmony
at rest between the measures.

 

 

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