Rose Hunter’s book of poetry, to the river, was published by Artistically Declined Press.
Links to her writing can be found at "Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have To Take Me Home" (roseh400.wordpress.com). She edits the poetry journal YB (ybpoetry.wordpress.com), and lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
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The Lion
Unlike you, he is not home. How
do I approach this man, then
in writing? With him
it’s the threshold, to balance there
more of a bio he’s got, than a history
gun toting, liquor store robbing
car thievin’ jailbird
but the details are pillow talk
as he says, and not for here:
these are fluffy and
absorbent, in theory
saying I manifested him
very different - no one
could manifest you - and anyway a lion
not a bear; the right shoulder proves it
with a treacly mane and a
cowboy hat, from Sayulita, Nayarit
via Minnesota, New York…
a quarter of a century clean and sober
and still driving like a maniac
shh, I say, I have to live here, and
don’t step on a toad, as he
feet splayed, unlike me, or you -
so planted on the terra, shrugs:
What’s it going to be? And about my
“apparently” this, and “apparently” that -
why don’t I just say: was?
rebar
reinforcing bar, reinforcing steel
my circus act; the candy cane carousel,
and what seems to have been his greatest
intoxication, the gun in the face
we are: without these things
strangers to ourselves
we were: with these things
strangers to ourselves
rebar: he tells me they leave it
on the roof like birthday candles
in case there’s another level coming, later
what do you want? money, sex
or drugs? this time he adds: or love?
but wagging his finger; no, no….