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He trots past my new place
hesitates, then approaches
sniffing the softly drifted snow
on my front stoop. Yes, I am a bitch.
But the season’s all wrong
to be in heat.
 He paces
remembering the faint white scars
traced with his tongue.
We were both scavengers then;
I had not quite learned to hunt,
he liked the low-life smells.
And now, behind my own door
I’m up to my ears in blood.
My first real prey
throbs in my mouth.
Come friend.
Circle my home three times.
Tilt back your shaggy head.
Let us howl in rounds.
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