Prey

By Patrick McGinn-Hammer

Originally published in The Homer News

Sketch created with ChatGPT

Prey

Pop. Bones pop sweet.

Claws drag fur from red.

They ran. I ran faster.

Legs knew. Lungs breathed clean.

And heart beat fast.

They fell like thin branches full of red.

Chew and Swallow.

Swallow and chew.

Flies come. I twitch. Ow. I flinch.

Tongue reaches around ribs—into crevices.

My tail throws storms in the dust.

Mine. All is mine.

The sun climbs higher.

Into the smell of sap. Of me.

Of old, old savannah heat.

Then—smoke.

From the trees.

Oh. Oh—the tribe.

I remember them.

Once, a little girl threw stones at me.

She missed and she laughed.

Mother stood still. Very still.

Scared of—Then the father came.

And then more. And then more.

And all were angry. Mad, mad people.

All threw stones. Then sticks.

I ran for the trees.

They let me go.

Why?

I wondered—I watched them from the trees.

I watched them dance to fire as the moon rose.

Their shadows, big as elephants and fast as flies.

They laughed loudly. Always loud. Laugh. Laugh.

They sang freely, that they do not fear me.  

I do not believe them.

Now, lying in the early light.

I am so full and tired. I stretch.

And I roll my spine like thunder.

The trees before me move softly.

I must climb away from the tribe.

They are coming right this way.

I will wait high above in the trees.

Watch. Wait. Watch. Wait.

Now—not the tribe. Just one.

Alone. One strange human alone.

The smell is sharp. Not earth. Not animal.

Metal. Rust. Something dead but never born.

He walks strong with his stick that smells like lightning.

I crouch. Lay down low with legs ready.

I will get him. I am full.

But I am still ferocious.

Now—he sees me. He does not run.

He is standing still. I wonder.

I wonder—He lifts the stick.

A soft click.

Now—the sky cracks and god screams.

In my side, there is now fire where there was skin.

Legs stumble. I leap to one branch, then another.

Legs stumble. Faster. Run.

Faster. Trees whip.

Birds rise and fly.

A second scream from the metal god.

Now—the little girl. She sings again.

Tiger, tiger lying in the hot sun.

I do not feel this one. I wonder—

Tiger, oh, oh, tiger you’ve got to run.

Can I still feel?

Tiger you ought to start prayin’.

My ears buzz like locusts.

In the Lord’s pasture he has no room

Behind me is silence.

for the pets of Satan.

SILENCE. SILENCE.

Now—and then—I hear a small cry.

Like my voice when I was born.

It winds behind me and does not end.

I wonder—I do not turn.

I will run until my breath 

burns more than 

my warm

warm

warm

skin.