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Paul Hostovsky


The gazelles

speed by in their

huge metallic herds

on both sides

of the highway.

The solitary,

powerful nomad

hunting them

with his radar gun

crouches behind

some trees in the median.

Out of the corner

of her eye she sees him

too late--his eyes

already flashing

in her rearview,

her heart leaping

like an antelope

pronking in her chest

as she flees among

the other antelope,

hoping it isnít her

he will outrun,

overtake, pull over

the rumble strip

to the shoulder,

his grille breathing

hot on her tail lights,

taking his time

writing her up,

her doe-eyed

hazards blinking.

© by Paul Hostovsky.
Used with the author's permission.

Paul Hostovsky is the author of eight full-length collections of poetry; his most recent, The Bad Guys, won the 2015 FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize. Paul makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter for the Massachusetts Commission for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing. Learn more about him at




Post New Comment:
Loved the clever metaphor...I know just how that gazelle felt!
Posted 01/23/2017 03:13 PM
Lori Levy:
Love the animal images.
Posted 01/23/2017 01:49 PM
Masterful, Paul. Great example of compression and extended metaphor!
Posted 01/23/2017 09:43 AM
Larry Schug:
As soon as I saw Paul's name appear on my screen I pumped my fist and said "Yes"! Always have liked your work, Paul. This is a beauty.
Posted 01/23/2017 07:32 AM
Pronking...a dynamic word/visual for that moment in the poem. Thanks, Paul.
Posted 01/23/2017 06:04 AM

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