by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It’s where the snow lies
inside the beating heart;
the forest,
who speaks in voices
across the wind,
waiting for the conductor
to begin
its movement springward:
Where teeth tear open
the flesh of a kill,
wolfing it down in mouthfuls
before another comes
to claim it as its own—
Where mankind
has nailed her hindquarters
to a board.
In her anguish
and suffering
the forest
still presents us
with gifts
indescribable.
fourwindowspress 