A. HUNTER
From woody perch I gaze into liquid --
Cool, crystalline liquid which dazzles.
Translucent, diaphanous, holding ice --
Floating bergs crowded in placid pool.
With spear in hand I peer downward
Into the depths to search.
As if seen through wiggly desert heatwaves
The blurry greeny form shimmers in place.
I stroke the surface with lance
To part it and allow a steady view,
But only set loose bands of ripples.
Changing my vantage to account for refraction,
I stab at glittery green mass and miss.
I stab again and a red spot appears. A wound?
On third try my spear lands home
And I pull from clear liquid my dripping prize.
I eat its oily flesh only after sucking out
The pimento. Then all my attention is turned
Toward vodka.
1996. David J. L'Hoste. All rights reserved.