There is a part to regret that holds
both hands to the breastbone, an argument
against the self—and though many years
pass there is still doubt and blame, inside
and outside the soul and the body, demanding,
giving away—like the she-wolf trying
to cover up her own scat but unable to resist
turning in a circle to smell again the trace,
and in so doing leads the hunter
to her den—and the hunter, black-hearted,
kills her and her pups, who were always hungry,
who were pure as drops of blood
in snow.