I am hunted and there is time to write a poem about it, here in the refuge
Of a forest thick with the calls of birds telling me there are too many of my
Enemies and too few of my kind still alive; might I be saved by the deluge
In the distance or the gun in my hand? For my legs are tired and they sigh
With the sway of bamboo in the wind, and the lights are hurting my eyes.
So I stop and between drawing my breaths and the bullets that pierce them
I think of the sea gypsy who sold me the faux pearls that decorate my ears
Whose name was Jilby, who was born and who died on a boat in the open
Sea, who was hunted for twenty-nine years in between, whose hopes and fears
Fall into darkness as I kill as many of our enemies as there are days that remain.
San July 15, 2018, Sunday