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.