Starlight Bloodhound

The catalog comes accidentally.  I read it over macaroni,
alone, think, Who would buy this stuff?  Faked fowl,
harvested musk, toys of the hunters, the serious, the men. 
From the Big Buck Grunt ‘n’ Bleat, the Full-Strut Tommy,
(tail removable for easy transport), to the Rattlin’ Antlers,
the Flambeau Confidence Decoy, the Still Steamin’—
“urine collected directly from one free-ranging deer or elk
at the peak of their rutting activity.” Camo t-shirts, camo
robes, camo bedding for the big rest after a long day.

Everything is a science.  Even stealth evolves;
something simple as a hunt needs accessories. 
Is what I lack Special Golden Estrus,
“collected just weeks before it is shipped,
taken right from does brought into heat early
through the use of hormones and lighting conditions?”
Maybe I need a Self-Inflating CALL GIRL
Turkey Decoy: “In a hurry?  Simply open
the self-inflating nozzle and you have an instant silhouette!”
Maybe that would entertain me on Saturdays,
greet me as I mounted stairways, rounded corners.
Who do you think you’re kidding, I would ask her,
slipping the decoy heart inside “to watch her
simulate a real feeding turkey, to drive the toms
wild by adding motion to my set-up.”

My mother knew what worked.  She had tools, too—
spike heels, fur, essence of flora.  Now, she wears aprons
and work-shirts, laughs and winks, “I don’t need
those anymore!  They did their job!” Naïve, she tries to paint
my nails, dye my hair.  She doesn’t know what’s out there—
the Wild Outdoors Spring Jealousy Turkey Motion System,
the Hunter’s Buddy Electronic Caller, “built to take
all the abuse you can put an electric game call through,”
the Starlight Bloodhound.  “Never Lose a Blood Trail Again
Due To Low-Light Conditions!  One spray and blood becomes
a blue-white light.”  As though it means success, they add
“Since 1961,” as though the ones still searching are the fortunate. 

I do not fill out that order form, check boxes
for Elk Diaphragm Calls and Tink’s #69 Doe-in-Rut Lure and Gel. 
I do not laud the frenzy of hunters, hang heads on the walls
to show what I’ve invested, to prove that one could try so hard
and stay unsatisfied. I do not admit: Yes,
I have been this fruitless.  Everything is a science,
even stillness, even silence.  In this dark kitchen, I prod veins
with a fork, wonder if I am anything worth baiting,
if my nun’s blood, too, burns with its own blue-white light.

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