through the smoke-hole of our tent,
I hear a grasshopper
burrow in the sheep dung.
He throws his hand over my chest
like a lasso pole to draw me in tight.
His breath travels up an elk-path
and comes back down, snorting.
All night, even without sleep,
I cannot rest.
I'm the one who holds his willow branch
until it topples,
a leather bucket with mare's milk
until it runs down his face
and drowns him in a white river.
I draw my lips over my teeth.
With my teeth
he wants to capture a smile.
He can bridle me. No one commands my heart.
Only the child that floats on its back
with fingers pressed against my belly.
I will dig in the ground,
feed him wild onion and pear.
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