Featured Poet Lisa Jacobs

“45 Minutes”

Settled in above the poorly lit landscape,
The bitter cold peels away at my many layers.
As the sun begins to rise over another season,
I ponder, as always, why I have come.

My growing resentment interrupted
By sudden movement in the field below.
His long, white fingers wave at me
From the brush, and then they are gone.

My heart pumps harder, erasing the cold
And replacing the peaceful quite of this place
With the deafening beat of the drum.
I can no longer think, instinct taken over.

Foolishly, he reveals himself upon the path.
Uncertainty creeps in for but a moment,
Dismissed by an exhale, a squint,
And the slow squeeze of the trigger.

BANG! Death comes to him
As he drops instantly from my view.
The expected remorse does not come.
My father’s dream; the hunter.

I love this confessional poem about Lisa's experience deer hunting with her Dad. Especially the line "The bitter cold peels away at my many layers." You can just feel the wind frisking her.