Songs of howling wolves

slice through the air in protest–

their lungs faking hope.

The flower’s wilting,

heavy from the hummingbird:

bird shit is good luck.

Dreaming of your face

joy seeps into my liver

at Grandpa’s gravestone.

My snot-frozen nose,

Your black, ice-tipped fingernails–

We sled to our death.

How something so sweet

can prevent a perfect day;

tea burned my young tongue.