POEM: “Bison Hunters, No Cherry-Pickers” — The men who speak with efficiency / As they might spear the deer behind trees.

hunters

Bison Hunters, No Cherry-Pickers

“J’suis pas un enfant d’choeur”
il m’a dit un soir r’entrant chez moi
après qu’il s’est presenté, almost late
à Place des Arts, pour notre date, en retard, pal mal Bar de Courcelle drunk.

Bon, c’est certain que des bad boys, eux
ont du panache, mais decouverte: Pourquoi?

I thought he was saying he wasn’t a man of heart
That he was hardened, not heart, and a bit rough.

No, it’s that he’s not an altar boy obedient or pure,
He’s a wild sonovabitch, dangerous, and immature.

But like she said in my kitchen
Sunday morning on our visit
Do you want the man who can hunt your bison
Or the one who goes cherry picking?

Smells and mannerisms.
Scents and hairy armpits.
I like me a man whose sweat is tasteful.
Who parallel parks in two moves: graceful.

Whose eyes pierce in concentration
when I’ve confused the fuck out him again.
And who cuts my long-drawn outness
with a “yeah, yeah, so I think I got it.”

The men who speak with efficiency
As they might spear the deer behind trees.
Not the prancer picking berries
talking too much, plucking here and there in glee.

Give me the side by side guy
Who I have to tell: “Look me in the eyes!”
Give me the shuts-down man, fuck,
Who I have to mother to come back up.

Just give me what I’m used to then:
Gorgeous man hands and competence.
Intelligence and tenderness to handle my ways
And our own little quiet connections.

Just give me what I’ve known so much:
Smart guys, liked, with a good job.
Patience and cock to mind my moods
and trips to the lake, river, and woods.

And always desiring that I feel understood
With manners and care for us two
Like a macaroon —

Hard-shelled like on the outside but easily breaks
With my tongue-lashing taste or weight
Vulnerable, but tough withstanding my ass-kicking
Will spear for me what we need & not wimp out in …

Cherry picking.

“J’suis pas un enfant d’choeur”
il m’a dit un soir r’entrant chez moi
après qu’il s’est presenté, almost late
à Place des Arts, pour notre date, en retard, pal mal drunk.

Bon, c’est certain que des bad boys, eux
ont du panache, mais decouverte: Pourquoi?

Because they seem independent
With something going on
But look closer, there
And I’ll telling you what’s what.

The bad boy is the self-absorbed man
Cuts corners, tricks, and cons
He’s lacking in strategy, effective in operations
But he’ll never, ever lead the pack for bison

That takes a leader and a man of honour
A man who is looked up to for their character.
The bad boy is nothing but a good time hunter
Who’ll wound you fast, and let you rot and fester

The man who grabs and tracks his prey smartly
Will win his prize with arrow precision, little suffering
He’ll use every piece of her – blood, bone, meat, and skin
And he’ll appreciate his kill for its value, not trophy win.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, August 4, 2019