Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature

We are in the trophy room, facing a wall of glass-eyed,

lacquered things, when he says, I will never understand

this country’s obsession with hunting. We linger

in the unicorn room. On the top floor, we find

a small cabin covered in crow feathers, some kind

of extinct buffalo. Last month, we had drinks

with an old flame and his new husband. The way

he looks at you, I can tell. He’s still in love with you,

he said, the next morning, sitting at the kitchen table,

resting his hand on the brass pitcher we’d just filled

with fresh flowers. It’s not hard to understand, not really,

the urge to fight the ephemeral. The hunter lifts a bird

from the dog’s mouth and can possess it forever.

This just doesn’t work that way.