from Venery

v. A Stalk of Foresters

He ran
until he could no longer remember
not running.
His heart was a tocsin
filling his skull, a flood tide
drowning thought.

His axe had fallen long before.
His fingers remembered
the shaft of it, curved
like the throat of a woman,
silken to his callused skin.

Branches plucked at his clothes
like an anxious wife,
or slapped him away
like an angry one.
He thought he could feel
the hot breath
of hunting dogs.

He stumbled
through tall reeds, tore
at his own throat for breath.
On his knees, at bay
amid his brothers, he turned,

his chest hardening to lignin,
the laughter of women
in the thickets of his ears.

In the darkening corner of vision
a kingfisher’s sharp blue flame.

copyright 2007 Joanna Preston
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Barnwood magazine
Contents 07