is the last animal of its kind. 
swirl of one finger-
print somewhere. 
an individual pair 
of chromosomes. rain-
drop growing into 
a snowflake. scar 
with a story. subtle 

twitch of a whisker. 
eye mid-blink, mid-flight 
baseball, throat mid-
swallow. half-made 
hollow in the trunk 
of a woodpecker’s tree. 
half a wag of a dog’s tail. 
a smile on its way 
to showing teeth. peony 

bud about to bloom. baby’s 
face preparing to yowl. pause 
of a wolf before howling 
at the moon, still haunting 
the morning sky as the sun cries 
daylight—last scrap of day 
before night begins. undulating 

hip holding a hula-hoop. yo-
yo on its way up or way down. 
juggled scarf suspended. trapeze 
artist reaching for her next bar, 
the empty net below. 
a window waiting to open. 
piano yet unplayed. a finger 

about to push any button 
for any reason. Jack-in-the-
box ready to burst. seed stuffed 
just now into dirt and watered. 
a poised stapler. door ajar. 
an open pair of scissors. 
the third person in any line. dry 
kindling collected, a patient match. 

lips closing in or pulling 
back from a kiss. balloon 
unsure of its fate. bated 
breath. ace hidden inside 
a secret sleeve. universe 
on the verge of a gasp. the last 
leaf to leap into winter. 

Bio: Elizabeth Rae Bullmer