Excerpts > Winter 2003

Marie C. Jones

I love a mink

fast mostly indifferent

his foot gnawed through the bone in a fur trapper’s
metal jaws he sleeps all day forgotten like a boat
sails into a dream of frozen fields clouded
with summer weeds’ black shrunk heads

into my fingertips he sinks teeth so sharp
I hardly feel them drinks his small fill I’m evil
he sighs licking his lips though he knows
only mild forms of that disease chicken-stealing
sex a meat-eater’s healthy cruelty don’t love me

he stretches across the bed all inquisitive eyes
vibrant mouth long beach of a belly the wet
fire between his legs I wrap him around my neck
let him warm up his nose in my pocket

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