66
CIRQUE
River E. Hall
Never Steal from Wolves There is no neatly-folded laundry in the undressing of the wild dead, the opening of soft under parts, the cracking of femur to release marrow, nor the toothy shaving of flesh from bone. There are no ashes cast in the wind, no embalmed easing of final agony, no flowers, no headstones, no will. The headless vertebrae curves poised to hoist antlers. The ribs are trimmed unevenly by determined gnawing ragged edges embracing a lung-less hollow. I stand in the aura of decay in the presence of the fed and the fed upon. I know I am not alone. Raised hackles make no sound. The forest shades out their watchful eyes. Still I want a souvenir, proof I stood in their presence, walked where the wolf walked. I begin to depart, long jawbone hooked over my forearm. I feel the deepest gripping, the static of fear. Not your elk. Not your kill.
Jaw
I set it down—head low, I leave much quicker than I arrive. --Previously published in the online journal Sisyphus
Lucy Tyrrell