The walls haven’t fallen in on us.
The monotony of monogamy has yet to do us in.
But that doesn’t mean we won’t still stumble
harnessed to each other and a sled loaded
with everyday glasses and extra bed sheets.
Yet I would pull anything
to feel the solid heat of you,
drag all of it into the wilderness pretending
the tracks we trace belonged to creatures
not eaten or beaten or frozen
just beyond the next ridge.
Because I’m a lemming? Because I’m a cow?
Because I can’t stand alone in the short grass
without shaking? Keep pulling, my love.
Our hooves will cut into the snow pack
without question or deliberation.
We shall molt and never speak
of our old skins again. We can feed
on our neighbors, our placentas, our drapery.
We will grow fit and survive
or be the last to die,
burrowed in for the winter,
muzzle to muzzle,
flank to flank.