A Guide to Hunting Wild Boar

My uncle craved the hunt and dreamed of herds
with bristled hides and tusks to mount. He paid
for tours and veteran guides to track his prey.
The squeal of gelded hogs released from trucks
incited primal urges. “Neck,” he aimed.
The slogan read, “No kill, no pay.”   He held–––
his breath, and shot.  He felled the trophy hog.
A catered lunch and breakfast filled his gut,
before they skinned and dressed the kill. His take
was smoked and packaged–– stories he would tell.

© 2011 Kim King

Advertisements

About k2king

Poeming to save myself
This entry was posted in My poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s