Bread and Blood


Imagine this:

A fire no more than warmth beside you.

A lover's argument;

He's moved his bag into the dark.

A clearing domed with trees;


In the shelter there, no moon.

You sleep.

In the dark, they pass by:

The click of claw on stone,

The brush of fur through leaves,

The hunter's sigh,

A momentary hint of other warmth.

They stop;

A new, moist breeze stirs on your skin,

Just there, where lip turns red and in,

Just there, across the grain of sleeping lash,

Just there, a breath like feathers on your skin.

You dream.

In the palm of your hand,

Gentle as trickling water,

The muzzle of a bear, rank and wild,

The lip damp on your fingers,

Breath hot on your wrist,

Soft fur that clothes

the tooth and bone,

The wet flesh of the nose.

I am that hunting breeze;

I am the breath in your hand.

Poetry Writing Dancing Badger