Winter
I hardly dream of wolves
hunting, howling, barking, 
and turning a dead
moose to its back, its legs cracked
at the knees, blood pooling
at the wolves’ feet, steam rising
from the kill’s split ribs.
 
I hardly dream of wolves.
I hardly ever dream,
hardly ever of the womb.
 
I am not that far removed
from cracking bones
to put food in my stomach,
from dipping my nose
into the gut of a moose
to warm my face from the cold.
 
I am not that far removed
from eating only what I catch,
not that far removed
from being afraid of waking
to find my family vanished.
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