There were trophies in the field: mallards rising, fine morning mist, soft light.
One that I caught, careful not to bite down hard, have the blood trickle in my throat.
The occasional fattened grouse, doubtful pheasant, rewards unseen. I saved my teeth.
Careful not to bite down hard. His hands, violations of longing, trodden, flea bitten & blue.
When the field is a grave, the sound of a cocked pistol, a bullet grazing past my ear –
I become shy. I bite down hard.
by Helen Vitoria