The Hunters are Coming
I hate November.
My stomach is in knots and I’m glancing over my shoulder –
I’m irritable and worried like when the madman tags along in my dreams
cackling cruelly as I fall from the tops of buildings like the rag-dolls on 911;
him, on his hands and knees as we scavenge through the leaves for my lost teeth.
The hunters are coming.
They are putting on their camo,
they are coming out of their campers,
they are cleaning the butts and phalluses of their flesh weapons
and the cock mechanisms of their metallic weapons –
They are coming for me. They are coming for you.
The other prey and I
no longer know where to run.
We are bumping into trees and
into each other
looking for boulders large enough to cover our asses –
looking for a blind of our own to keep us blind from
the night vision goggles
that see through my dress,
and the date rape
bait feed that
lures me closer –
easy to pull my pants down so they may
hunt what they like
licking their chops
they’ve eaten me again and again, every year the same feast.
My corpse is in the smoker house
making jerky of my thighs.
They have stacked enough wood
to transform me into venison, steaks, stew, casseroles –
And I am only one of the many faces
that will hang on the walls this year;
if you go there after
hunting, to have a beer with your
Look into my eyes, because even though my
head is stuffed with…cotton and formaldehyde
they could not remove the anger in my eye as
those are not orbs of glass
but my real eyes still –
I tricked them into keeping them there
wasn’t that smart of me?
They shot me through the lungs
and the chest
and in my ass –
it did so much damage to my body –
less meat for them to enjoy
but hey, they didn’t shoot my head open
with their virile balls of fire.
Of course not, as they wanted it on the living room wall
as a testament to their prowess –
a tally of testosterone
a trophy – someone’s trophy.
Little did they know it sparked a fire in my eye –
they won’t be able to enjoy their afternoon beer
as I will be staring them down,
singeing their red beards to ash –
no longer afraid of their man weapons
they’ve already had what they wanted of me –
so look out:
I’m eating men’s hair like air.
I take what I need, want –
give them bad dreams of a madwoman: me
Charybdis – Medusa – Empusa:
my body of a woman
with the head of a doe
and snakes for my hair,
snacking on men; cracking open
their vessels like coconuts
in hurricanes of estrogen –
my vagina open, gaping,
looking them in the eye
peeking over their shoulder,
as they look through the leaves
for their buckshot, their slugs, their dragon’s breath
that fell out of their mouth, gums hung like rubies
the ones they ate me with –
now a smattering of spent metal.
The hunters are coming
for me, for you.
I’m too tired to run
and they dismantled my blind to hide behind.
I think this year
I’ll just lay down in a field – and
the combine has already eaten my friend, the corn.
I’m so scared,
I’m so tired.
Next year I’ll be
the Empusa I want to be
the Medusa I thought I could be
the Charybdis everyone expected.
I hate November.
Elisabeth Horan is a stay at home mom in Vermont, caring for her two young boys, feeding her animals and writing her heart out. Her goal as a poet is to bring attention to issues that she cares about and has dealt with personally: mental illness, sexual abuse, the plight of nature and the environment, and those suffering in isolation and in pain.
Conver Photo from ClipArtFest.