On What You Used To Be

 

Dream of the Huntress Robin Robertson     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.