New Poem/Wolfhunt – Rough First Draft
Can I take back the bullet, please?
Replace the splinter of bone, cups of blood.
The piece of flesh and patch of fur?
She floundered in the snow before I shot,
looked over her shoulder.
Her eyes said ‘please don’t.’
I thought about putting away my gun,
turning for home. But I wasn’t bought up to do so.
I heard the wolves last night,
I heard the story of a long war on the wind.
We watch the white horizon, guns steady.
‘He’ll come back for his woman’
father says. ‘They always do.’
He’s right. The black nomad returns,
gives a quick, frantic bark. Ravens circle.
His presence pulls my heart out of its box.
I imagine the feeling in his belly, that ache
for his companion setting in like mountain stone.
he is not used to this, being on the other side of victory.
The bullet touches neatly behind his ear
before I have time to find my breath.
The wind picks up, the ravens dip
to dance in the blood and I have no choice.
We cut the throats, so their souls
can escape to the skies and I wonder
about their naked firstborn.
Will it be grown?
The pack will sit with their dead
and tonight the moon will be silent.