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 blizzard growls. I call to it, cull, cull,
the gizzard, ripe with maggots, the one true heart;
shun, clean, kiss me, my make-believe blood.
I cannot choose, I choose what comes to me.
But choose. Let each lie ask, what man
did I kill, or, what beast did I become.

2 thoughts on “Becoming Winter

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