Sam Trainor (Creative Writing: University of Glasgow)
Even past this cold, hard waterstop
--this thing that flats our breath,
we nose you: nose your leg joins;
nose your holes, your mists, your meat.
Even when you drag down the last suncub
with a spider paw, and claw your outskin
off, we mooneyes you. We eyes
your upthroat river, as it bulges; bulges;
bulges with the hotsweet red in it:
hotsweet like sunhot metal juice.
We tongues the curl of it already
as we teeths your give, and eat drips
from our chops. And even as you shade
the lookthrough, we upears you:
we upears the drumming runner,
footing on the woodground
through your bonetrunks;
we upears feather bladders in there,
inning out and outing in.
And if you stillhide, cloudish,
quieting, we furs the crackles
of your instrings and your muscleroots;
we furs these outside airs you lick at us;
we furs your thinks. Make no mistake,
upstander, skinny bear, we are
the reason you are fattening now.
The time will come for you to warm
the muzzles of the pack.
eSharp issue: autumn 2003. © Sam Trainor 2003. All rights reserved. ISSN 1742-4542.