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Diana S. Adams

Wolf Fox Egg Moon

art by Alayne Spafford

Wolf Plates Autumn-oiled, evidence of another portal, he eats a patch of beets, our knees knockknock, our arms form little V’s to hide our trembling interiors, our voices escape from their carpeted compartments. Wolflove (lunar, terrestrial) torpedo-boats through night’s thin tunnels, green-dark rooms connect with water, wilted light, pepper smells of earth.

He’s tired of iron and hides a delicate cabinetry. Rub each joint. Tend each raggy hair. Absence, death, guilt over family: wring out the various sadness’. He will appear indifferent, looking for tufts of forest. Place him on a slope of road. Offer up oranges. His electric field can start sparrows, all inner forces unmoored. Keep him close. He can hold a live hen in knife teeth, bathe it in road water.

Wolf Fox Egg Moon I won’t tell wolf I love fox, fresh eyes, hair red, half-musical breath. In hacked grass we have all we want: discarded tension, eggs, saying nothing, self-polished dreads. Gold-blood birds read our sly, accurate dramas. Sometimes confusing questions with answers, we share the pavements opinion of light. In dead brush, selfish fox streaks marks of intent.

Waiting for Snails In our valley of ice we practice looking heroic. We’re hungry, head-dressed with forks & cups, without one sign of anything winged. Bat-eyed hunting dogs, a river of sick sturgeon, all of Wolf’s fears zig-zag, rash. Little barbs smart down his middle, he’s sullen, pre-surgical, lowered. The doctor on a snow bank reads from The Book of Summer Conversations, Wolf shakes, untwists. ‘This is going to be a fast trip’, both of us hold the phrase in case it vapors. Sudden lichen-light opens the possibility of snails, rain nests.

Purification On Tonquin mountain we eat bowls of steam from night’s wind-love. A wolf bursts out from tonsured trees, sick–cheeked, knotted blanket coat: here, here

come, She, She. We have leftovers for boredom, and Beaujolais. Snow between us opens tight-whipped teeth. Come wash your curls, She, in our grave of air.

Quick Fish A nice net is widening, taunting out speckled brown trout. Rose-scented birds peak peak, peak peak, hiding in the alders the musk-smoke-old-corn-coat of a cougar. Wolf sends out thick-sewn running-at-you warnings. Today’s wind, when it comes, is available for work. On the highway, hot trucks salt our fish with diesel exhaust.

Wolf, Pursuit In the tree bed he runs his tongue, warm as a hand, to a groan. Hovelling beside, coke-black fox with his mouth of light winks. Wolf watches the crosswalk, people with their glasses of gold, unswallowing. We could be discussing war, water infected, interrogating papers. What happens with avoidance. Fox might find a way, all summer washed in dirt, tragic but true.

Wolf Salad There is an equation for wolf-love: N=รฐr^2+n, a lopsided circle, an open melon. Hands break off lettuces, pleasure sleeps inside a salad. So many ancestors eating meals in sweaters, spaces inside ice beneath breathe, lungs. Every passing wolf shows up as a solution on our window. Dog shrieks, each ache inside transferred to us.

Three Nights in a Tree Weeks of handshakes, passing packs of royals milk us of all potential. At night I hold the stuffed crow tighter. A holiday in maples shoots straight from the sun, the air lends us keys and conversation. Up here we move by scraps, covered in mirthy whispers. Venus Erycina lies flat as cat, cracks tender oysters. Electric leaves lead in B singing, do it, do it, do it.

Everlasting Wolves Wolf croaks, the sound a rotten bell inside a swollen throat. Wide bison eyes cow us down, their craggy weight unshifting in grasses. We backward to a tent of cedars. One lone camper at dark sings us a warm castle, dragon-scented medieval lullabies. We go there, shouldered, palming hummingbirds, greeting Canidaes from history, packed, melodic, snouts and sharp smells.

Copyright 2008 Diana S. Adams

Wolf Fox Egg Moon  

A chapbook of assorted animalia, art by Alayne Spafford

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