Lori ran a finger over the snow white surface of her skin
She detected the slackness of expression
and paw prints and scratch marks of wild animals.
The light was not bright enough
to illuminate every pock mark, blemish and stain
or the lush who closed a thousand bars.
There was a sheen that vanished under inspection
like ice under spinning tires as they created steam.
She slapped herself and felt her crucifix jingle on a silvery chain.
Her mouth watered—wolfish, wildly casting about
nose to the ground for a scent just located.
A growl was hunger expressing its dissatisfaction with the status quo.
She regimented the rank and file
whose eyes strayed from hers down to her breasts
and silently ordered them about face—march.
It was slow—her thumping heart.
How she felt the blood-pump push upon her ribs
that swore to protect it, not cage it.
Soft needles of snow fell and shagged the pines.
A curl of sage smoke commenced
from a ceramic bowl and match to precious leaves.
No November witch wind to blame
for a shudder up the spine and out the shoulders
that shattered her metric stiffness.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney