Becoming Winter

Am I a boy, Or, tremble in the beautiful questions
of a hunter? Yesterday, I saw the statues of deer,
move, through separate boughs of cherry trees,
snow-feathered, leg-trapped in sticky paths of goldenrod,
creek-oiled flowers of ice. And a white sun
buried in the ground showed steps in snow
leaving me, because I would follow.
Nothing is what it is with me. Falling snow’s a gown,
the morning is a luminescent fox. I sway, gut-shot,
in its blizzard growls. I say to it, hum, taste in me
the honeybee hum of despair, and listen, please:
let their maggots, exiles of the true body, swim, clean,
sleekly kiss its make-believe blood. I cannot
choose, I choose what comes to me. But choose.
Let every lie ask, what man did I kill, or,
what beast have I become.
– ph, Jerseyville, Toronto, 13/11/16

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