You think I'd go mad with grief.
Nothing left of love except the last

          evening's purpled lips. Our hunting house
now a grave of open season—

          eagle feathers, a bear-skin rug, mounted
heads of whitetails and a bull elk

          —almost wild. But I can be practical
and ruthless, too. You haven't seen me tear

          open the throat of morning with my teeth,
lick the harvested, polished boots clean.

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The first line is adapted from Jessica Fisher's poem "The Right to Pleasure."