by M. Krockmalnik Grabois

The gold stars embroidered
on the Virgin’s blue robe
fell to the ground
and wherever they landed
a corn stalk grew

Deer came and ate the corn
and as they digested
they became enlightened

They went into the fields
They approached deer stands
where hunters
chewed tobacco
and drank bourbon

The hunters looked at these deer
and most could not pull the trigger
If they pulled
their automatic weapons jammed

They were shaking so hard
they could hardly climb down their ladders
They lurched across the field toward their homes

Their wives were waiting for them
with coffee
stale or fresh
They put away their guns
and never hunted again

4 thoughts on “Hunters

    1. it could be all the bikini kill i turn to in times like this to parallel my anger with SOMETHING fitting out there, but if you dissect my comment the same way i just did, feel free to snort your strawberry nesquick at how i transparently used ‘cute virginal marsh-nymph’ as a metaphor for myself. amazing!

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