The Hunter
by Alvin Kathembe
Into the silvern wood to pursue his injured quarry
like Hansel following a trail of jam.
Except the hunter is not hungry,
cannot remember the last time he was.
Not hungry for food, anyway.
The bloody spoor leads him to a starlit clearing—
there the stag lies, gasping,
pumping thick quicksilver
from the gunshot in his neck.
How beautiful, how wonderful he is,
the hunter thinks.
The powerful brown haunches
as packed with potential as springs;
the proud, noble head
sporting a crown of antlers;
the large, limpid eyes
shining with intelligence.
The hunter stares a while,
then he re-slings his rifle
and unsheathes his knife.
The hide will make a rug for his living room.
The head, a mount for the wall of his den.
Some meat will go in his game bags—
the rest he will leave for the vultures.
Some time during the dressing
the hunter stops for a breather.
He wipes his brow with the back of a bloody hand,
he listens to the sounds of the forest.
He looks up into the clear night sky,
at the million twinkling stars—
and how majestic, how wonderful they are!
How they pulse with life, with power!
He wonders what it would feel like
to kill one.
BIO: Alvin Kathembe is a writer from Nairobi, Kenya. His poetry has been featured in Dust Poetry Magazine, The Lumiere Review, Old Love Skin: Voices From Contemporary Africa, and other publications. He co-edited down river road's third issue—'Asphyxia'. His short stories have been published in Jalada, Omenana, Brittlepaper and Equipoise, available on Kindle. Find him on Twitter @SofaPhilosopher.