Perhaps where she goes

is not written in the books we saw. 

Perhaps it is a place more reckless,

more windblown,

more naked and raw.

a place that rubs exposed nerves down to jelly,

Ignoring skin,

bypassing the worship of scent and oil.

She crawls like a creature of night, 

gutted souls devoid of light

inching through the darkness, the dribble
to taste a drop of sure liquid
but never quite reaching the flame

never resolving the echo
never touching the fingers of the cabin-warm hand

that rox this cradle.