Diane Hine (25 July 1956)
I only hunt killers,
web weavers, trappers of innocents,
tormenters and destroyers,
my conscience is...nonexistent.
My instincts are attuned,
I'm hungry for this work- my missions,
as if by nature assigned,
incapable of contrition.
No disturbance,...no waves,
a slight presence, conservatively clothed.
I can fit in tight spaces,
take precise and painstaking steps.
Avoid warning tripwires,
my targets are so well protected.
agility is essential.
The powerful are high-risk,
strongholds have vice-like security.
Put one foot wrong and I'm caught,
a hunter becomes a victim.
If seen, they'll run or fight.
I kill with quiet efficiency,
stretch my long graceful neck,
probing antennae…tap, tap, tap.
My piercing mouth is poised; I stab.
No ordinary thug,
I'm a giraffe assassin bug
and my prey is....spider.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
It hunts spiders in rocky crevices.
Comments about this poem (Assassin by Diane Hine )
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