The Wolf

by Jan Edwards Hemming

Her hair is too red
against the crumpled white
sheets. In my mouth
twenty-eight pieces of bone
bleached nearly blue
at the edges
line up like suitors
for her lips.

I reach for her face.

My fingers hold
her scent—sun and salt,
moon and ink—
and it blooms again
between us.
I am exposed pulp,
soft and wet
in the middle
but better to pet.

I pull her to me.
My pupils beg.

Outside it is snowing,
but in this room the radiator
buries us in steam
and we sweat, slick
against each other.
I imagine licking ice
from her lashes.

When I come
I speak her name
into her mouth,
and she swallows the sound
of my voice like it is
quiet dust.

I do not know it yet,
but this is the way of winter:
There will be no flowers
on which to make wishes,
and everywhere I go
I will search the shadows
for her silhouette, seek
her jaw and the way
light hums down
its smooth slope.
I do not know it yet,
but there is no reprieve
for the call of a ghost.

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