This is the only time I get to be alone,
parked in the minivan between errands,
craving the solitude of the night sky
grey with birds’ silence.
The clerks are all southern smiles,
chat about the weather,
cannot see my bow and quiver
inside the shopping bag,
waiting for the kill.
In the parking lot,
a well-built man eyes
the side slit of my running shorts,
speculates on what might lie
beyond muscled thigh.
In the old days I might have led him on,
running along the river
until I let him catch me in my secret grove,
take me on ruined ferns,
playing the game of surrender
for as long as it pleased me.
Let him look.
He doesn’t know that men have died for less.
