shriven

they find the woman at the edge of the forest,
in the field where the grass grows dry and tall
in summer. her body is still warm, the child
still grips at her breast.

          they lift him by the leg of his pajamas, away
          from the blood, with their teeth, away from
          the sound of grasshoppers in the wild wheat
          into the shadow of the trees.

the river. that’s where they bathe him, bring him
berries and insects, lick his face clean. on warmer
days he splashes his fists in the shallows and
grabs at the pups who nip his hair.

          in the winters, sunlight narrows, the forest sleeps.
          he learns to stalk the footprints in the snow, to tear
          mice from their tunnels as they pass. they live on
          rodents and snowmelt until spring.

the boy knows something is wrong with him. he
feels the wind and snow on his bare pelt, sees
his digging claws bleed into the earth. on moonlit
nights, the others watch him listen.

          one day a sharp thing hidden in the tall grass
          of the field cuts his foot. he takes it to the trees,
          grabbing it in his claws, and attacks a young fir.
          pitch streams from the scars.

they are sleeping when it happens. he leaves
their skins in a pile, their skinless corpses
in another, the forest full of bleeding trees
and headless animals.