POEMS

at the scratch line

it’s understandable how the wilderness can seem naive 
in the presence of the city, but i can’t identify that 
when i’m running with the wolves. 
my paws are purposefully placed. 
if i was better at speaking directly 
you might not have called me wild, 
but when you say: act, i think: i am, 
like an animal.

a wolf is enthralled with the moon because of decision 
not eagerness and sometimes when i can see the moon during the day 
it makes me howl unprofessionally while the sun is out. 
it’s true, i’m easily excitable and i’m not sure if you understand 
that i recite no fairy tales but spend time memorize
the names of deities.

you don’t know me very well but i sense you 
feel comfortable enough to make commands. 
it confuses me.  

i don’t know you very well.

i write— what i would otherwise try and say directly 
with no understanding of what you sense, 
it is my stretch before the run or my heals digging in 
or my knees bent so i can better handle the impact
(or sometimes, my paws over my ears).

where the bodies are buried

you do need to find where that cemetery is
because those bodies will tell a story— and
trust me, they will be in the same grave, one
layer or two, thrown or laid to rest, they are
maybe the only truth entangled with each other
because they have settled together but you have
to remember who was buried first and how many
times the earth has been disturbed to add others
and then you count them, and you name them if
you can name them and you sit with them
because trust me, you will need time to think,
as you decide if those bodies are arranged like
yours are, or if it’s too different and you can’t
handle knowing where they are.

Monsters

I escaped from a monster.

Though,

before this

I’d hid in a bedroom

I’d slinked behind a door,

I’d agonized over whether I was seen.

Once I’d convincing myself

that I was invisible,

I started practicing to appear

in spite of my reflection already appearing in things:

like the puddle, and the stream, and the lake…

I couldn’t yet find my reflection in the ocean

of his eyes.

Working harder,

I hid places where I thought he’d find me:

under his bed

in his bed

at the foot of his bed

next to his bed

behind his bedroom door

at the head of his

bed.

but he still didn’t seem to see me.

Then one night,

when I was hiding under his covers

I saw him look my way, and then through me

as if I was smoke passing or a smell you lose

once you’re far enough away

or a memory, intangible

and at the whim of another’s imagination

and I understood then,

that as I’ve been satisfying myself with

trying to be seen

he has been satisfied with forgetting me.

So I fed.

Escaped;

From the trap one of us was undoubtedly setting.