Thursday, September 10, 2009

Incomplete Wolf

Throw out your meat pans else he comes,
Ever coming, always leaning on the back door
With ice for paws and his breathy nose
On the screen, his messy smile
Nailed to his pained face. Tongue.

He wears a hat of cold river and the coat of
A wild wet spring. Though he never begs
With his warmth, his teeth sneak. The
Always smirk tacked on to his ashen
Tones, like smoke from a stack.

Big, rain-soaked eyes, famished with focus
Bulging from his wet head into our lives.
Looming, ever looming in the Garden,
On the Porch, in the Kitchen, Bedroom…
Stealing our Intimacy, our Private Things.

When mother leaves, the sound of fur on
The gate, breath on the knob. Like a
Kindred spirit, his filthy watching like
A stray from the Wood, through bloody
Lenses. She said he wasn’t my Father.


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