I wear my hunger, I wear my hunt,
I wear them the way I wore my petit doll-dress
when I was eight, making smoke rings out of paper
with a crème filled waffle sticking out of the corner
of my mouth,
I wear my hunger of a prey,
it’s on my tongue,
it’s between my teeth,
it’s on the flat bosom of the Full Moon
up in the sky, down in my eyes.
I wear my hunt of a deerstalker,
it’s on the soles of my boots,
it’s in the scent of my gun oil,
it’s on the tip of my big’n’ heavy rifle
right in my hands, right between your legs.
I need a hound.
I need a falcon.
I need a leather belt with my proud initials on the buckle.
I need some G-d and whiskey in this hell’s pit.
I need a confession
for and from myself.

The way I wear my hunger
is the way I wear my hunt —
in this black swamp
tracing my own moist footsteps,
drowning in them,
following them
just to figure out
if the one who left those

is human.