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18 September 2015

A poem not about rocks

Warm in my bed.
Layer on layer separate
shut 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 waiting wolf
or lamb.
I will know with no harm done
or blood blotting her sifted snow.

Eavesdrop I, tally seconds to a witching hour,
wounding with doubt if lamb he proves,
but cooling carcasses, fur scarlet-stained in a drift
trump what grievance I give.

Alone in my layers, count 60 then again.
12 to come and see her whole
but the dark will come again, the cold, and
I'll retreat to layers and let her live,

unearth the wolf or lamb.