Muntjac Call

When I make the sound of the muntjac doe,the buck walks toward me.That’s the moment death approaches.

—A Nuosu hunter

I use all my courage to blow the muntjac callto make the sound of the doeMy lungs are a concentrated seaOne nostril is the Yangtze RiverThe other is the Yellow RiverThe call rises and falls like waves of duskstirring so much unseen maternal sunlightAir is gold, golden,drifting soundlessly, long, uninterruptedSuch tender, delicate lines of poetryIt seems to have been mysteriously marriedto that soft lightor to have put on water-like clothesthat the male can feel with his skinBut I’ll always knowI’m a man blowing the muntjac callEvery leaf falls to camouflage meI’m waiting as if I’m late for a meetingEven anxiety has become sacredI raise the rifleand aim at the slowly arriving buckforcing him to walk beside the deceptionTherefore, I pull the triggerand the buck meets his final death

When the call and the rifle have gone silentI seem to see so much maternal sunlightilluminate the world with such gloryI don’t know why a deep autumn wind suddenlypasses through my heartas dismal as a North Pole winterI bite the muntjac call, breaking itand along with the blood on my lipsthrow it where no one can see it

To be honestI sort of want to cry thenand I want to lieI worry those who love me will know