Rebirth

By Karen A. Romanko

I am born
at dusk.
Some things
I know,
some things
I sense.

The woman
is gone,
fingers
no longer
touching,
hands
no longer
grasping.
It doesn't
matter.

I run
the wild woods,
raven fur
flattened
by the wind.

I smell.
I see.
I hunt.
I kill.
I eat.

The woman
returns
at dawn,
fingers
again
touching,
hands
again
grasping.

It doesn't
matter
I will be
born again
at dusk.