Dear John,

I am not as available as you thought, nor as interested
in home brewing or minor league baseball.
All of that? Poses
to draw you to me. I went after you
like the Chumash hunter stalked the deer:
from the sweathouse roof,
the climb down the ladder, to a seat above hot stones
and green branches, he sweat out every drop
of scent before the steaming race to the sea.
Lithe, naked, his body draped in deer hide—
front legs, a tail, the head and antlers—
and with bow and arrow, he entered the woods,
crouched and chomping on sage leaves to mask
any remaining man-smell. The hunter
needs the deer, down to its sinew and hoofs.
For a moment, I mistook you for necessity,
for a minute, you believed. Here I am unmasked,
sparing your life. Don’t miss me—you never met me.