Letting in the Wolves
LETTING IN THE WOLVES
[A flower waits to bloom inside your ribcage]
[In place of pelvic bone there will be locusts]
*
Mommy was smaller than the
poppy she held onto.
She knew she could never be tall
enough to see past it
so she painted her lips
red & parted them
ever so
slow
to imitate the soft
bloom of
petals unfurling
revealing all tomorrow’s
black seeds.
*
A dandelion burst from her
belly & carried her
into the sky.
She floated,
propelled
by her hot
air balloon silver
bullet wild white
need.
Someone else had a
wish. He blew. Seeds
scattered in the
wind.
*
Now they are a couple of smudged faces holding hands in the woods. The woods are blue the flowers are white & it is difficult to tell what lies behind them & what hovers ahead. She might be facing away from you. He might have a hat atop his head. Nothing is quite clear from this distance.
*
[And what costume shall the poor girl wear to all tomorrow’s parties?]
*
You levitate,
naked body
hung, white fish
from a hook.
The Hanged Woman.
Your dress has been pulled
upward,
inside out.
You are beheaded
by folds of fabric.
You seem to have too many arms.
Your body makes a new face:
unblinking nipples.
Black V grin.
*
Don your winter
clothes:
Lying in a field
under a wolf
the world stops
spinning.
Lying in a field
under a wolf
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
*
These days Mommy sits on a pond-rock, not facing
her reflection. Her redundant dress
shimmers among woods.
The pond-image is not a perfect likeness.
The trees are darker in reverse, her face less
human. The red of her dress spreads to the edge
of the pond.
*
A woman steps out of the photograph.
She looks like you would look if you
weren’t always looking
for dead things.
She carries a stuffed wolf in her arms.
Sequoias line her path, sentries.
She is in no hurry.
She is not leaving.
She is looking at you.
Stay
she says.
Stay for the ending.
Stay for dandelion
fox-eye
golden tress.
A second look:
not a stuffed wolf, stiff and still,
but a wolf satisfied.
A wolf that’s had its fill.
*
The hills still whisper winter's
rumor, a grey that won't wash out.
She is no longer scared to remain
motionless &
swallow the sun.
She waits by a garden of discarded
antlers all reaching skyward as if
still attached
to caribou.
The antlers are
white & do not
move. Unnecessary bones
overgrown with brambles.
Bowls balance atop thorns.
Bowls of dandelion brine.
The future has something to do
with her yellow hair casting
shadows on her face.
*
Bloom of the poppy, the past unpearls: cinder, cinder, cinder.
Your miseries, one by one:
garbled eyes & empty hands
need biting every tongue you try to confess with
greed born of your mother’s wild white want
the seeds the seeds—
This bloom gives off a smell.
This bloom is raw meat.
The wolves press in.
Unfold. Let them begin.
An early version published by Nailed Magazine.