It Was Yoked to a Black Hunger

Dana Levin
            The raven lifted.
            Circled like a skate on a groove of air -
            
            the fur at the neck ruffled up.
            
            Ruffling up,
            each follicle trying
            to leave that meat
            as the raven swooped down, poked its beak
            into that beating snuff,
            the rabbit not dead not yet -
            
            it pecked and pecked, until the one red spot welled up.
            
            A thin steam from the rabbit, like a wick blown out.
            
            The snow sparkling.
            
            And the raven cocked its black eye, dipped its beak
            in the red pool
            it had made -
            
            for the ink of elegy.