Lisa Trudeau
A Dream Before the Hunt
You press your forehead to the glass. Outside, the slanted rain taps –it wants in, it wants you. So strange, you think, body sore, mind disarranged from the day’s long trek. You throw your brandy on the fire, watch the flames lick blue then make your bed beside the hearth. Dogs curl along your back, lapping at your neck, your feet, filthy from the day’s sodden trek. You reach around to scratch their heads, feel their teeth, their tongues, yaps wide in doggy grins, close your eyes – and dream the baying pack, voices, orchestrations of the hunt confuse with falling rain, tap, tap, hooves percussing stone, horn cracking fang, runoff pours through gutters gurgling – a sound that makes your skin fur with fright. The high sun arrowing light in shafts upon the forest floor. Spores drift into shape then out again. Water washes stone, skin. Vapors rise and shriek, condense to limbs hurrying to hide a body far too bright, sky scarletting in blush. She holds the moon liquefied in one cupped palm, throws it in your face, a furious smile silvering each melted shard –the last thing you see with human eyes before you wake.
About the writer:
Lisa Trudeau is a poet and former publishing professional. She lives in Massachusetts.
Image: By the Well. Hot Day, 1908 by Matiros Saryan (1880-1972). Canvas and tempera. 20.3 x 24.8 inches. 1908. Public domain.
