Tessa, I Howl At The Moon

I am the lone wolf.
I am steeped in two worlds.
One’s filled with saffron, joss, Buddhas,
the ink of calligraphy.
But it’s the other that I write about,
that quickens me, less laden with
nostalgic salty overtones–

where I’ve made myself a home
nesting in language. I don’t want to be
a sort of supplicant, some cultural beast–
maybe there’s a line I won’t cross
keeping the worlds separate so I may howl
at the moon, pale, puffed up,
goading me on;

its cache something different than the ones
secreting the past, braided but quickly emptying
out–a faux trophy I’d reused as a plant pot.
My eyes are red and wild. Body in lustrous coat.
You’d find me in the turquoise woods, returned to
hunt, retrace steps to earthly hunger, tethered to
desire; where you’re most unguarded, spilling out
secrets privy to none but yourself.

Prompt: Write a poem in which a wolf is featured. The wolf as trope. It is associated with instinct and intuition, and maybe that’s the way to navigate the spiritual/physical world. It is a wild and free animal. It is also a predator. You may, for instance, let your poem’s theme be passion. I’ll leave you to figure out what to do with the wolf in your poem.


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