I.
I dream that my legs
are covered in hair, dark
and coarse as a bear’s.
I’m afraid of this.
I can’t breathe
for the thickness of the air.
II.
Hibernation –
a season of deep sleep
and now wakefulness.
Prowling
this shapeless darkness,
heavy on skin, ceaseless,
sweet-tasting
but scratching at the throat.
A rash of thistle
and of thorn.
III.
Skin-depth: I imagine
that you crawl into bed
each night
smelling like a butcher.
Whoever yearns for you there
in sweaty darkness
craves this:
craves your raw scent
and the rinsed blood
of your fingertips.
IV.
Soon you’ll come stalking,
cutting through metaphors
and these illusions
with the precision of a hunter.
I too could consume a heart,
and swallow it whole:
in such dreams, the heart
is a small detail,
a petty conflict of territory.
In this,
I am reckless. Feed it to me.
V.
The hot air crackles, licking
at our bodies. Petrified
into life again. Who knows
who’s the butcher, the hunter,
or the bear? I tremble
with such electricity.
It punctuates my skin, snaps
the roots of my wild hair,
and sparks at my lips –
between
the sharp small bones
of my teeth.
VI.
I’m not hiding.
I’m biding time.
I can’t find myself
among these twisted trees.
How long will it take
to rinse this blood from my hands?
VII.
So she lies wrapped
in damp sheets, stark-stripped
in his bed. He watches keenly,
wondering about her dreams
and whether he is in them.
His eyes linger like shadows
or like teeth,
all over her skin.