Life Among Wild Things.

My young wolf sings to the absent moon
Her howl is a floodlight in the dawn
She is her own soft predatory music
If I were to stand and call out to her
She would prowl. I am not neccesarily afraid
She sounds an awful lot like my daughter

Some time ago, my house became a wood
Full of wolves and warriors. Sometimes
The wolves cry out like girls with soft hearts
And skinned knees. Sometimes the warriors
Are boys with bruises who are still afraid of
Fingers reaching for them in the darkness

These are the moments when the warrior
Finds a crack in his shoebox armor
And the waning wolf begs to be held
In fortified arms of sustenance and steel
“Save me from the hunt,” she asks
As water carves a river down her cheek

I do, because that cross is not hers to bear
Except for when it is. So I will run with her
Until my sheepish growl tears my throat
And the paws on my knees begin to glow
With the burn of being too old for this.
But there is wildness here, and we are wolves

And the wilderness is not wild for long.

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