On the Hunt

Pamela R. Anderson


Coyotes returned to the field behind our house.  I know this from the now-absent

rabbits    occasional animal shrieks in the night    scattered tufts


of fur near the lake.  The snapping turtle is on the hunt again, too    evidenced

by diminishing numbers of Mallard ducklings paddling behind their clan’s lone


remaining matriarch.  Strange:  unlike everything else, our predatory instincts seem

nonexistent these days    past actions notwithstanding.  Discarded spouses    abandoned


lovers    careless flouting of conventions and expectations    good names dishonored

in countless ways.  We never speak of past deeds    nor are we anxious


to repeat them.  You lean into me    bend your head toward mine    and I wonder: 

Have we lost our nerve?    Grown too old to relish the slow dismantling


of skin from bone    soul from body?  Or have we become two carrion-eating

creatures    sideline skulkers    content to chew on bloodied scraps?



Pam (the original) Anderson has never owned a red bathing suit and is unlikely to invest in adjustments that create any alternate physical facts related to her personal appearance. Her work has appeared in Whurk, JennyMag, Mason’s Road, and elsewhere. When she is not writing poems about the Holocaust, she practices and writes about yoga. Find Pam on Facebook at Pamela R. Anderson—Poet.