Warm in my bed.
Layer on woven layer - cover, separate me
from the cold air of my room,
insulate the bare skin I've shed to
while heard in the kitchen, after hours,
consequent flesh of my flesh whiles an hour to midnight
with a waiting wolf
perhaps, or a lamb.
I will know which when no harm is done
or blood blots her sifted snow.
I listen, tally seconds to a witching hour,
knowing I wound with doubt if lamb he emerges,
but a cooling carcass, fur scarlet-stained in a drift
trumps what grievance I might give.
I live in my layers, count to 60, then again.
12 will come and tonight will see her whole,
but tomorrow -
the dark outside again, the cold.
I will retreat to my layers and let her explore,
unearth the wolf or lamb,
her own expression as huntsman or quarry the key,
that final reveal which must occur,
but that I would ever delay.
There in my layers.