True Name
(Winter)

We pull away,
even from our own face,
the tendons and skin
separate—could be the
drought, yes,
but something is stalking
me at night.

Naked beneath her fur.

Yellow bird flies
between houses;
yellow leaves hang
onto a spindle-bare tree.
But it is not so simple
as worm-meat or fire-winds,
the hunter lives.

Naked beneath her fur.

To discover a name
beneath clay and brush,
between the wires
that separate enemy from ally,
and then to fear
the name: too close, pull away.

The stalker circles
ice-tooth-femur-white
in the night of snows,
of snow-memory,
she digs you out.

Naked beneath your fur.