Nine Charms against the Hunter

In the last bar on the way to your wild game,

May the last beer tilt you over among friends

And keep your there till sundown—failing that,

A breakdown on the road, ditching you gently

Where you may hunt for lights and a telephone.

Or may your smell go everywhere through the brush,

Upwind or crosswind.

May your feet come down

Invariably crunching loudly on dry sticks.

Or may whatever crosses your hairlines—

The flank of elk or moose, the scut of a deer,

The blurring haunch of a bear, or another hunter

Gaping along his sights at the likes of you—

May they catch you napping or freeze you with buck fever.

Or if you fire, may the stock butting your shoulder

Knock you awake around your bones as you miss,

Or then and there, may the noise pour through your mind

Imaginary deaths to redden your daydreams:

Dazed animals sprawling forward on dead leaves,

Thrashing and kicking, spilling themselves as long

As you could wish, as hard, as game,

And then, if you need it, imaginary skinning,

Plucking of liver and lights, unraveling guts,

Beheading trophies to your heart’s content.

Or if these charms have failed and the death is real,

May it fatten you, hour by hour, for the trapped hunter

Whose dull knife beats the inside of your chest.

A Flock of Fools