Sky White – The Unclaimed Pelt (Pt 2)
The Unclaimed Pelt
In the fog we forgot – we were engulfed –
He, still hotly, thinly breathing, begins to stiffen.
Final blue mewl rises from blood dark heart
and leaves as steam on the stolid winds of Siberia.
After the death,
his poachers were not quick enough to collect
their win – the exquisite pelt was unclaimed,
an un-priced skin.
The ones who find him fresh,
found him prone in the snow, unfrozen.
They got to work. They built a fire.
They carried the body to their fire.
Its heft choked their fire’s supply
of air, whose mild blaze glared
and craved to die.
But the pyre was rebuilt again by the men,
until it too bellowed sparks of light.
The eye-sockets blew smoke from where the opal eye
had been and his ears curled like a yawning tongue.
Lard glowed blue on his spine, the stiff wick
twisting like a glued noodle. Wax fat dripped
onto black dirt, hard packed, but for viscous char.
Like mucous spilled from a silver cunt, bones glazed
slick with blood, a pool grown thick under the moon.
In the fog we forgot. We were engulfed
by an exhaust of flesh, the price for a skin.
In the beginning, we watched the white fangs belch.
But soon we looked away. at the sky. at the mud.
Eyeballs melting into hovels of socket,
onto the cheek bones, onto the mud,
where we gazed.
The specialist picked at debris for claws.
Her son was a collector.
extra phrases to kick around ….
He, still hotly, thinly breathing, stiffens.
A final blue mewl rises from blood dark heart
and leaves as steam on the stolid winds of his Siberia.
He, still hot, stiffens, breathing thinly steam.
He, still hot, stiffening, breathes thinly steam.
Stiffening, he is still hot and thinly breathing steam.
Sedated mewl smokes on stilled wind.
Still hot, he stiffens; thinly breathing steams
of breath – sedated mewl smokes on stilled wind.