Covet

Hunt

34 Hunt My food my parent my child I want you my own My flower my fin my life my lightness my O. —Robert Pinsky, “The Want Bone” Four a.m. crash hardest after Sunday of good cheer, red wine and laughter in late February light, a good day spent stamping the frozen earth after a pack of cold-nosed dogs, the tree line a black map against the bright sky. So then to tumble into bed with a cradling mate, warm nest of body and quilt, and wake, squint a few tears at a good life gone sour in the stolid dark, to name all daylight accomplishment a false trail, scent of hunger muddied in the current, 35 is to suffer wanton indulgence. When someone still will tend to coffee, smile at my dishevelment, worry over my comfort in the cold; when food and money are plenty, and the good news of health, a child’s success are general in my life, this then is to gut the live heart of what I love most, to feed fat want its juicy bone when it calls at dawn growling, finds me clattering at the ready with my horn and whip, my thin dressing gown. ...