The Fur Trade

July 22, 2017

I prodded your pelt, 

shared the soft pain 

of an electric shock – 

the buzz of currents passing. 

 

I saw 

           (I saw, I think, I saw) 

you once in the forest 

with your back 

arched against 

the rough grain of bark. 

Your milk fur was sweet 

so I twirled you 

in my palms and hummed. 

           Fur bristle; fang drip. 

I tore the raw jag of a fresh scrape, 

dripped your honey mane 

into the open pulp of skin. 

I burrowed in sting, searching 

for the bursts of bees. 

          (The forest was always lapping 

          at the shores of our not-forest.) 

 

          Catching cuts, throat-awed, 

           I was lost in the green– 

                               ever, ever awed– 

           until I saw you curled 

           around the throat 

           of a woman with her hair white. 

(But I was once the teeth nipping 

at the nectar of your neck.) 

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