I have a wife.
She hunts. She’s the hunter
She rides a horse to death through a stubborn land.
A land that is loath to forget.
 
As taut as bows
the roe deer stand bare in the fields.
When she’s away I make up my stories.
She need tell me nothing.
 
If it grows dark and she’s not returned,
to the night I then listen and wait.
How many men are there
waiting in the night.
 
When morning’s near she creeps up on me
wanting her brother. She smells of blood.
 
I stroke her back.
To stroke her’s forgetting.