Shepherding

If not to clutch this flock
fierce, if not to tuck and gather
the scuffed ankles, woolen
necks—then to inhabit the shocked
meadow for a time as one of them,
fold through the dark hours
behind the staggered belts
of alfalfa as if tending,
convinced we could groom want
like a lamb, like an awkward, blind
stumbling, and feed it.
Staving off hunger for as long
as it takes, refusing to come
in from the cold empty-handed,
even the shepherd has a savage
longing. We bundle our secrets
in winter clothes, leave them,
these sad culprits, to the wardrobe,
let the moths scrap
the silhouettes to shreds.

Copyright © 2007 Allison Titus All rights reserved
from Instructions from the Narwhal
Bateau Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission