In the heart of hearths there is her, she wolf
. . . . . . . .who, linking arms with your first-born,
. . . . . . . .who, shedding dresses, crossing
breeds with
. . . . . . . .leading him on to
. . . . . . . .outrageous death waltz
allowing outside
wildly in with laughter.
Who ought to be ashamed
who someone should fetch grandpa’s gun.
Lines around this
hearth-polis
. . . . . . . .snares and mountain ranges
. . . . . . . .tongues of many different knives of colours
for (fun for) law & order.
Who will howl for her please?
Who leave a plate of milk at the border?
O she in wolf’s clothing
no mother nor father
that wildness is
brazen wound dancer.
O we are no waltzing sheep who
does she think she is?
Little death song, little death song
. . . . . . . .prescient of death
. . . . . . . .& self-fulfilling like foundations
we dig
to be filled up
with grave-water.
Who will snatch her child up in her mouth
who bear her miles from hence.
She animal will never speak / can never
tell of horrors done to it;
only sing at moonlight
where traps she knows are best set
. . . . . . . .[who will cry for her at the border?]
. . . . . . . .and strangely dance.
Part of The Learned Pig’s Wolf Crossing editorial season, spring/summer 2017.
Image credit: Jocelyn JG, via Flickr
