Private Land (Poetry)

I sense your hungry eyes on me,
watching every move I make,
ignoring signs you will not see —
the scent’s stone cold, my smile’s a fake.

        Downwind, the hare waits in its form,
        the vixen chews a chicken bone,
        they hear the distant hunting horn,
        sniff the air and stay at home.

I feel hot breath upon my cheek —
ragged, panting, freezing flesh,
while fear squirms frantic, silent, weak,
its awful panic fills my chest...

        No Trespassing the notice says,
        but hounds can’t read, they wriggle through
        the boundary wire. Their leader bays,
        encouraged by the hunt’s halloo.

I flinch — your hand explores my skin —
fingers creep beneath my dress,
you hunt the private lands within
and plunder what you can’t possess.

        The hare has fled, the vixen leads
        the pack away from cubs and den,
        her fate hangs bitter on the breeze —
        damns the appetites of men.