She below the rock cairns, a brooding wind, climbs higher.
She with a visceral pace, its bright shards of hunger.
She that savors hunger, gnawing emptiness as if a recitation.
She that mangles her foot to cheat the metal hold.
She grunting at births that press her to the cold stone.
She panting at the edge of the pack, pursued by heavy clouds.
She night-bound, her howls what the moon hauls.
She loose in her pelt, what a moon lacks.
She lone, snapping off branches, beating the wind.
She that grips snow in her teeth, grinds it to rain.
She warm-mouthed, full of harm.
She that should be nothing but harm.
Up the slope, rattling stones loud enough to become prey.
Matted and wild. A huntress, a bitch.
She rear-mounted, standing on ice under his weight.
She stone-still, lasting.
Lisa Furmanski lives in New Hampshire with her husband and two sons. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Prairie Schooner, the Antioch Review, and others.