Poem: East of the Sun

February, the light tells me
what to do. His scent draws me
down.

The den is quiet, outside hushed
by earthen walls.
I climb into his lap of fur.

Asleep, his heart is a slow drum.
He arranges me with his paws,
wears me as he dreams.

My body is changed now,
Slippery. I have a tail,
and beech leaves in my hair—

more myself than ever.
In profile, he has a roman nose,
And eyes that possess

instantly,
all
my secrets.

This article appears in October 2017 Issue.