Sure he cooked the meal for her
and it tasted like three and half star restaurant fare
but his parlor was watched over by animal heads.
She had a difficult time
equating his thoughtfulness, his manners,
with the sour looking expressions of the dead.
Over coffee, he explained
that he went on his first hunt at eight,
killed a buck,
was sorry he hadn’t kept the antlers.
But he’d made up for its since.
If a creature was fool enough to wander into his rifle sights,
then it had to be prepared to become part of the furniture.
But everything he said came with honey on the tongue
whether admiring her outfit
or stalking the raccoon.
In the embrace of his words,
she wasn’t sure if it was his lips or his fingers
that were more eager to pull the trigger.
At least, she consoled herself,
there were no heads of his female conquests
staring down at the next in line.
But then he showed her the photographs.