That September, we bury the placenta
under the cherry tree
and wait for the blackest birds

to start singing. We wonder
which treasures will unown us
first. Come sleep, come love,

come breath, come bramble.
Come October, the wolves
have returned to resurrect

our howling. They circle
the suburban block
of our bodies until we call them

in for dinner. I get down
on my knees and beg
to be bitten because teeth

belong to flesh. Because
the nights don’t end
with sunrise,

but when the crying
stops. Hush-hush,
here-here baby. Here’s the harpoon

and the hoo-ha and the helpless
heart beating
everything it ever touched.