Hunting Season

In the garden again, doe-eyed
and crying. Knees bent and pawing
at moonlit dirt, trying to dream-
sort seeds from shit.

The first thing I should have noticed was
white noise from the transistor radio,
the scent of dried bovine blood, eggs
and garlic. An eight foot fence to keep me
out. But the gate gave way to headbutt.

Beside me a cell phone planted in soil,
a trigger warning of messages carried across
several states. The screen reading something like

You shouldn’t be in the garden alone and
It doesn’t matter what some gardener thinks
and Will you ever stop playing the victim?

I want to bury my muzzle in a bed of black-
berries, stuff foxglove between cloven hooves.

I’m just a white-tailed twitch away
from scampering. My presence only
marked by the jagged edges
of plants, by bean-shaped droppings.

I should have sensed danger in the sender’s
green thumb, a long range rifle aimed at my ribs.