My husband does not read;
he stalks.
He scans the words
with a pen in his hand.
A scalpel of sorts,
at the ready.
He is like the gecko we watched
on the wall at dinner
that night in Bali,
waiting and waiting,
then pouncing on a moth,
then waiting patiently
for the next one.
My husband looks just as still
when he reads,
but make no mistake,
he is hunting,
always hunting,
for meat.