Through dark trees there is a forward urgency, the violent blossoming of his pulse.
The wolf rubs his fur against thorns, combing tracks like an empty music staff along the song of his body.
When the wolf howls, he shows the rose to the moon, which catches the red in its white eye.
The pads of the wolf ’s paws are black petals spreading themselves against black earth.
Everything the wolf swallows passes through the rose’s throat.
The rabbit’s last thought is that it has been taken into the bee’s heaven by mistake.
-- Jan Bottiglieri is a freelance writer and an associate editor for the literary journal RHINO. She lives in Schaumburg, Illinois, and has an MFA in poetry from Pacific University. A few previous publications include poems in Margie, Court Green, After Hours, Cloudbank, and Pearl.