I am the stone child wrapped in lace. I am the winter inside. I am the red hunter that waits and waits for the prey to fall, for the prey to ready itself, for winter warmth to kill what gets up, what moves in the dark. I am the dark hunter that waits and waits between shadows and heirlooms, in the attic, in the basement, below, between, always between. The red hunter hunts for life, for the sun to bleed through, for pride, for shamelessness, for shoelaces wrapped around dreams. Each time there’s a push, a running into the woods, a running into the street without fear, the hunter knows where to aim. The hunter is warm, is alive; hunter is bright and quick and the color of new death. White is the quiet death or the time before death or the time before the knowledge of death. Little reasons pile up like lace and steam, clutching bills and doves. Collect me. I am the red hunter that waits and waits. I am the white winter billing the earth. White doesn’t know death, doesn’t know an end. Gray knows all the ways for things to end and helps them to use a broken belt as a hair tie. I bind each strand with something like stones or stars. Strike me down now, please. I’ve got everything to live for, but I can’t.