Inuits bury them, handles down,
blades up, add water,

let each freeze solid,
daub the tips with blood.

Lust lopes in before dawn —
wolves believe they’ve found

seals asleep, streams full of salmon,
caribou laid out end to end.

They lap up the offering,
ignore it is their own blood

they drink to fullness,
to weakness, to sleep.

Curled frozen on red ice,
frosted furs offer Inuits hope,

life with color, warmth at night.
Arctic wind retains howling rights.