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.
