This one
has teeth that grow ceaselessly in the dark
of the bank’s hollow lodge This one
scents blood packed into the far reach of winter
blind kits latched to the milk–
warm underbelly mudpacked life
ice breathes with claws can’t rest in
thoughts of slick greenoiled grass the sap
of spring cycling through the mind’s in
satiable appetite meat fat a path
scratched into the arched ceiling of the skull
by the calcium bite of their suckling she senses them
gnawed in beneath the snowpack belly taut from hours
of sleep and dreams unbroken a scab of frost
at the mouth of a winter’s cache
tearing over land without pause or scrap
to keep the spirit housed
the edges are ragged as claws
or a snapped bone sucked hollow in the bloodied snow
wrapped in mud and sticks muscle and fur to become
undone in this month of need
loosed in the hard and final air
a tear and scream unworldly fused
to beat upon the opened ground without form
swallowing whole the pulse of this being
this being becoming again in the flesh
in the belly of the lodge torn open
this being its muzzle thrust into its belly this
being this being this one
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