How this cold has wounded me:
It has taken two kits from me.
Guard the den as if I could stop death from approaching.
Hear the laugh of fatality encroaching,
Poaching on my happiness.
Wearing necklaces of baby teeth,
Covered in their tiny pelts.
Merciless.
Watch the moon like it threatened me.
Cut it to pieces with my animosity.
Shiver my way through the night;
my only kit kept close to my side.
Sleep as if about to be attacked.
Keep my ears pricked for the sound of danger.
The desperation of a mother
is something to be afraid of.
Guard the den as if I could stop death from approaching.
Hear the laugh of fatality encroaching,
Poaching on my happiness.
It's breath cold at my neck.
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