How They Met Themselves

Out hunting,
ashen-cracked faces, lantern
lights glimmered up ahead.
Birth cries of their babies
alerted us, strange howling, caustic,
desperate. We tore off strips of bark
where the sap bled out. Delight
ridden tongues, lapped and spat, lapped then
wait.

A thicket strumming on the cinder path, bloody
havocking hell at the smell of meat whorls, blessed,
holy in a way, because of it, because of the animal.
It hurled,

and snapped its way through. We followed, gnashing,
whittling the sharpest points with dirt. Our scent
must sicken

that low slung drawl thick with saliva,
detritus of the woods, our hearts calming
to the sound of purring, bristling skin.
Shudder, a lone one.

So tiny, lost it seems. Sockets streaming,
its half-moon haunches visible. I cannot do it,
even when my bow goes up to strike,
this is the way of things. We will repeat
our crimes, wash arterial red
from our hair. Say prayers. Not this one.
It rises up, twitching with strength, catches
us in the blindlight.
We will starve tonight,
save for the experience, the loss.