Dream Of The Huntress

the-huntress
It is always the same:
she is standing over me
in the forest clearing,
a dab of blood on her cheek
from a rabbit or a deer.
I am aware of nothing
but my mutinous flesh,
and the traps of desire
sent to test it—
her bare arms, bare
shoulders, her loosened hair,
the hard, high breasts,
and under a belt
of knives and fish-lures,
her undressed wound.
Every night the same:
the slashed fetlock,
the buckling under;
I wake in her body
broken, like a gun.
Robin Robertson, Dream Of The Huntress
I don’t know who made the above picture, but I really like it. It could be a scene from a fairy tale that’s broken free of its moral tethers, like something Angela Carter might have dreamt up.
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