Groping like this, beneath the veil
for a hold on anything, precious
or precarious, the hands
like homeless beggars
want to be filled.
To bring back light to mouth,
to swell the empty heart
with rich, red blood, to tear
ripe fruit from skin through
soft, white pulp,
to ease the burning.
Behind this curtain, I lie awake
expectant as a virgin maiden,
a starving wolf whose life is but
a hunting slave dependent on
a smaller creature dying.
