There was always the possibility the air
would let you go, and the ground bend up
to meet you with much success.

Those nights that you spiraled
toward the desolate stars, you’d return
inscrutable. Better now to rub your voice

cross this crocodile’s ridges than return
and return to your lost moment, to take up
the endless question: Who will be your last mother?

The wind bays, horrible, frothing, and you,
just a quivering foot, slice clean
through it. The trees outstretch themselves,

strain to be first to tear from your throat
that fierce blood. For now, you shudder past them,
your shadow hanging like a tattered memory

behind you, waiting for the inevitable slip away.