Pablo Otavalo

The Hunt

          Across the northern sky, 
beneath the handle of the little dipper, Ursa Minor, 
the bear cub, a cut of light divides 
         a moment, then is gone, then remains, 
its afterimage a fading scar 
against the insistent blue black. Distant 
          traffic across the East-West interstate 
fades into the hum of powerlines, which itself 
fades, and the quiet fills your mouth.

                                        A scrap 
          of interstellar debris, incinerated 
by the upper atmosphere, memorialized by synaptic 
circuits retracing their           steps. Look back, past 
          the field of switchgrass, the lone porch light 
on the rehabbed farmhouse, the silhouetted oaks,
hickories, edging the Vermillion River, 
          straight           into the dark. Let your eyes 
adjust, then look up at no one part of the sky, 
but at the trembling vast. Slowly, your gaze 
          ripples the light— the air, 
heavy with sumac— a dart 
in your periphery, compelled by gravity 
           to burn.



 
 
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Pablo Otavalo lives and writes in Chicago with his partner Rachel and their inscrutable cats Sebastian and Dorothy Parker. He is a recipient of the 2013 and 2014 Illinois Emerging Poet award and his work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in RHINO and Structo magazine. He is a reluctant dancer.