Sarah Elkins: From the Tall Grass

I floss at night after steak and butter. 

My house: unguarded range, bison huffing, 

 

ice-faced, hooves stamping an echo stutter. 

I do nothing in this boundless nothing. 

No thought, no synapse firing. Still hands still 

stained—berry juice of an empty morning. 

This room-less space, a translucent thin will 

 

through which I, good sow, whiff my boy’s homing. 

His trek complete, except for the recount— 

bighorn sheep, bull moose, near miss, eagle plume. 

I toss one sleek mink to the catamount. 

The grass lies down; walls rise around my room. 

 

Ursa fades. A house cat lurks in willow. 

I sip gin, smooth the pelt of my pillows.