Through the glass teeth, <br />you can look all the way down <br />the draft horse gullet, <br />past the cherry-pit heart, <br />and straight into the stillborn tallow <br />leaking into the abdomen <br />through a tear in the membrane of the uterine divider. <br />Sometimes she sneezes, <br />but the pups won’t touch her offering. <br />The rest runs through, or is re-absorbed. <br />Something’s wrong. <br />Time runs up trees faster than she can chase it. <br />The moon’s light is just a reflection now; <br />what little fire is left flickers unseen <br />behind rheumy eyes that once shown <br />lucid and portentous. <br />The last season flickers, and her exhales <br />seem anticlimactic against the heaviness <br />and the black, voiceless snow. <br />In a last gesture of defiance she offers her throat. <br />Her tongue, lolling and bruised.<br /><br />metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wax-wolf/
