Even as cubs, my granddaughters
guard me, though they know no grief
or brokenness, no empty house jangling,
tap at death's gate. They preen their pelts,
crouch on ready haunches in halogen glare—
the unstoppable traffic, intentional swerve,
sweet dish of poison. They prowl for me,
howl with me in the spilt strawberry moon,
raw-hearted tributes left on my stoop.
I shall fear no evil, their shadows large ahead,
behind. I shall not falter in age or decline,
for the path they prepare is clothed in light.
Hear them answer blood's love call,
snag in their teeth the arrowed night.