The Heart Is the Target

Hunger drove you across
the savannah and into the rainy
forest, sweating for prey.
As if this heat were an ally;
as if desire were a weapon.

Now you have reached the densest
vegetation. The path behind you
has closed like a curtain of water.
You have come upwind of your quarry.
The birds, with their passionate
language, announce your arrival.

Flushed by the chase, you lounge
on a viny cushion. Above the belly's
salt-lick, your breasts thrust forward
their wine-soaked centers. You strip
to the waist-a wash of light
against the green canvas. Soon,

in a murmur of branches, a figure
approaches. He sights the white field,
aims for the left breast's two
concentric circles. Then the pull
of the dark, centripetal eye.