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