Hunters
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"
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pussywhipped men jerking off to cute virginal marsh-nymph offering them liberation, followed by said dudes running off home to say “mommy! i miss my bib and procreating!”
I like how this poem works–its details and how they’re organized–but take offense to its message that hunting is somehow unholy.
I see your point. Amazing.
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!