To published by Lotus-Eater Literary Magazine this winter, 2025.
Morning
the ragged wolves return at dawn
collecting what they’re due
you don’t remember when
they went away --
you do remember
you made the wolves
by seeing them
and you remember the stories you told
sheltered them from slaughter --
those parables of salt
made a world
they savored in your skin
then at night you promised them
the wounded moon
perhaps you promised too much
and now the night passes
and the wolves in you
get seriously pissed off
collecting what they’re due
you don’t remember when
they went away --
you do remember
you made the wolves
by seeing them
and you remember the stories you told
sheltered them from slaughter --
those parables of salt
made a world
they savored in your skin
then at night you promised them
the wounded moon
perhaps you promised too much
and now the night passes
and the wolves in you
get seriously pissed off
*
before their numbers
were great
and hungry packs
chumbled on the hem
of your rough robe
folded on the shore
there you sat on ancient rocks
by the blackened sea --
and wanted
a whole night’s sleep --
wanted to be warmed
by a fire of dry grass
sparking on red coals
you tired
of making them prey
so you struck a deal --
blessed are those who sharpen teeth
blessed are the raw
blessed are the outnumbered
for they will seek shelter in the broken laws
you thought they were multitudes
but it was only you
then when
you stopped thinking
the wolves stopped
and the night returned
to night
*
whatever beatitudes
you sold them
must have left
outstanding debts
you remember sitting
between the wolves’ darkness and teeth --
counting your habits
as the smoke
on an alien shore
rolled across the water
into you
you planned habitual escape --
the migration of wolves
out of your eyes
*
plans are lies
and lies harden your debts
perhaps the many wolves
were also born by the war in your head –
you hoodwinked them
and then promised relief
by silence
but they got history instead
and history would piss
anyone off
your shameless mendacity
will not hold the pack --
wolves pour out of the cut
in your chest
shadows scratching
at the cockcrow’s windows
as day insists you open
your eyes --
night’s end framed
in willows and skin
you and they did love the moon --
but dawn stops
the tracks in you, in them
the morning wolves are cranky
they are wet with your blood
and howl at the luminous emptiness
there’s not enough coffee
for the pack
but you remember the story
of loaves and fishes
and how baskets filled
as long as the hungry
surrounded them
so you pay your debts
for free
and the tribes of wolves
lick your hands clean of blood
in a windy sunny morning
by the sea
by what you refuse
by what you forget
in your body
still wild enough
to make good news