qarrtsiluni

What animal gave me its ear
last night, loved me enough
to lick it deep into the hinge
of my jaw? My fingers found it,
softly furred at the rim,
angled below my right temple.

The ear was black inside, smelled
of cinnamon and cloves, opened
into a rocky den the wind scoured
as we slept, the beast and I,
on some mountainside.

Awake now, I trace where
the ear was grafted to my head,
search the mirror. Morning
rustles the cottonwood leaves
outside my window, and I remember
the black rattle that came
before the ear, the gourd
I have been running from,
its furred wings still
on the table, its sharp face
waiting to sing.

by Penny Harter

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