Bear hunt
The mistake was leaving the window open
an exit to fly to the forest
at the moon’s invitation
and track the smell
on the sweat from the firs.
Is she hiding tonight?
Or following in circles
there’s a meaty breath at my neck,
I run until waking
back on the floor of the bedroom
plastic sword in my hand,
soil on my fingers.
After living in a Moscow and London John Porter is now in Gloucestershire. He has degrees in Russian and Law and when not juggling his two small sons he writes poems, usually on trains. His work has appeared in magazines including The Stinging Fly, Prole, Marble, Streetcake and Strix. Website https://www.johnporterauthor.