Rifle Song

for Diana

We know that the taiga
still hides your stripes.
We will grind your paws
to aphrodisiac.

Lovers demand it.
our skins are lonely,
and girls just flash
in our magazines.

The rifle’s more true
than bows and arrows.
We will grind your paws
to aphrodisiac.

Birch splays before
miles of new snow,
fuelling our noses,
our four wheel drive.

A shaman might fly
on a pig-skin drum,
like lead propels
through our barrels.

We caught that look
in the big-lashed eyes
of a doe who bled
still from her haunch.

We left the fire
and released the bolt
when a feline appeal
caressed the tundra.

We know that the taiga
still hides your stripes.
We will grind your paws
to aphrodisiac.