my mother's jaw

for it
to become
my mother's jaw

for it to fit
both hoof
and hell

had to drop
not in awe
but dead

and demon

as a sack
of sticks
in a hunter's
heart

and for the deer
to free itself
that womb
of glass

had to bridle
its hoof
that human bit
 
with which
it barters
now
and limps

past small men
touching
stick to stick.