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Shanley Smith

The Hunt

A Poem by Shanley Smith




I


Sometimes, with only the dog on watch,

I pretend I can play the piano. Sonatinas,

lullabies, entire symphonies. At the desk

I spread my fingers wide and prance them across

mythic keys. A hound can cradle the pheasant,

but my mutt holds a secret all the more gently.

Doesn’t even tell M, though his commands–come,

sit, stay–are more convincing. This, I’ll posit, is intimacy…

like the squirrel and cardinal in the maple tree, divide

and conquering as they sequester nuts and seeds

even in the last days of February. Meanwhile,

Fitz and I eat from boxes and bowls, so far removed

from our kinds’ days of hunting.



II


Last week a student interpreted a poem with more precision

than me–pointed to the line about the shattered bone,

said: the hunter used gun (not bow) in his takedown routine.

In short, the student fell in love with poetry, and let the class

play witness to the words he understood on instinct.


Today a hunter informs me, the student’s logic was misled,

that a bow can pack fifty pounds of force and constellate

a femur instantly. I do not tell the student

when he sends me an email:

his own collection of poetry.


I know something he doesn’t about hunting, I who only

ever shot four clay pigeons on a summer retreat,

picture a boujee ranch & mountain scene.


And he knows something about poetry,


that it is the language of the search,

the hunt. The slow appearance

in the scope, what at a distance

appeared brush, was actually

wet-nosed and breathing.


III


My dog, out for a walk, at least had courtesy

to leave his phantom presence with me.

I cough his name, only to remember M

is allowing him (maybe at this exact moment)

to prance through the church’s creek.


My dog is a skeptic, barks at the statue

of white Jesus. We praise him for his instinct.

He baptizes himself in the pond, purges himself

of domestic leanings in pursuit of spring’s

ducklings. We encourage such explorations.

Is this a red flag for parenting?


I don’t have the heart to tell him, but

this dog will never catch anything with fur

or wings. So the ducks win again.

The dog returns hungry. A wet mouth

nuzzles my elbow and signals it's time to eat.





Shanley Smith resides in Holland, Michigan where she spends her days writing, teaching, advocating for the environment, and walking her dog. She proudly serves as Dimly Lit's head editor and founder.


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