runs the morning sky in shadows of fur. Her father has jaws
that rub the earth and scrape against fleeing moon. Sunrise
whets her appetite; she slavers through all those famine years.
Her tongue burns, her belly has become an emptiness of pain.
Her teeth nip at random rays that spill from the ball of her desire.
She has come to love the chase. Relentless, she follows horses
as they tumble into afternoon, then vanish deep into winter nights.
Her ten thousand cubs mewl among stars. Until sun returns,
she sleeps in a den softened by rough grass twisted into dreams.
[Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Flutter Press has recently published two chapbooks: My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word and My Father Had Another Eye.]