The Hunted

They are coming,

over the hill there,

eyes bright as lanterns.


What use to ask

if they’ve seen us?

If they haven’t, they will.


We’ve no better chance of hiding

than the moon,

now caught

in some mountain’s embrace.


All our lives

we beg to be held—

why should the moon

be any different?


Still, we run.

This is what our veins have taught us,

the sap in the trees.


We shall run

until we are water


and then, when they are close—

so close we could be their fingerprints—

we shall sink into the earth.


Just watch us give ourselves up.


© Nicole Melanson

This poem first appeared at Waywiser Press