The men gather in the hunting house

deep within Michigan’s woods,

where a fire ring, picnic table,

and a spice rack are filled

for the gourmet hunter cooks.

 

They reside here

during hunting season.

Solar panels ignite the cabin.

The owner planted apple trees for the deer.

 

They call the climb uphill

to the outhouse,

where they also have a compost

where the view overlooks

the pond, geese, pine and deer,

their Stairway to Heaven.

4-12 points, deer head trophies,

adorn the walls.

 

The door to the bunker

where three single beds

house the room

with numerous camouflage jackets and pants

hanging on hooks

is where the men sleep

after and before

the bloodshed.

 

The door is closed off

the crack stuffed with a towel

to stop the smell of their cooking

from seeping into their hunting clothes,

so the smell of their sweetness

doesn’t interfere with the killing.

 

I practice non-violence.

I don’t eat meat.

 

So when the deer hunter

made us dinner,

offering fine wines,

single malt scotch

for the man takers,

and one brave hearted woman,

after setting the table

with the finest silverwares,

fit for kings and queens,

and pronounced that dinner was ready,

he turned to me, pointing at a pan, and said,

“This one is vegetarian.”

 

He’d made a curry,

but in my heart he made

a deer hunter into a dear hunter

proving in action

that he lives

as sensitive to the kill,

as to the living.

 

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Ed: Bryonie Wise