Everything in these parts is geared
for winter: long dreams of falling
snow on the lead-still sea. Shadows
behind the clouded glass, exquisite
as wolf’s milk. The frost
extends its immaculate forest—
a mirror by which to enter a landscape
of open eyes, a heavy fabric
in the most bull-like black.
A she-wolf, that with all hungerings,
sends a message from behind the lit woods:
you have become human, alien & hateful.
When the body is cadence of shriveled
memories, do not forget to be animal.
Someone cleans a rifle in his kitchen.
A great & royal animal is dying,
through her arms trickles black snow.
Then that chapter officially ended.
In the room where it is snowing,
I find my childhood toys.
Published in Wolf Centos (Sarabande, 2014)