A wolf drags down 

the only whitetail

we’ve seen in days,

her teeth slick

with blood

and meat

in the lamplight.

My husband says 

she reminds him

of the Carpathians,

of snow-heavy spruce,

though throats

of slaughtered deer

summon ghosts 

in every forest.

He asks if I remember

how we were once children

who lit fire to things

we didn’t understand,

who let meltwater

run across our tongues.

At that age, 

we would have followed

the wolf, not heeding 

the silent oracle

of her ribs 

still believing the mountains

could be less hungry, 

more forgiving.


Author Bio:

Taylor Hamann Los is an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Moist Poetry Journal, CLOVES Literary, and Split Rock Review, among others. She lives with her husband and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos) or at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.