God is the tongue of the female timber wolf slathering my face, rough as a snowshovel scraping back the pages of Red Riding Hood, revising my ears. Listen, says this wolf tongue speaking its severed language of love and sorrow, its history of stick games, its guileless pups, history of rifleshot from airplanes, forelegs snapped in steel-toothed traps, trailing blood through snow. Listen. Have you ever heard eighty wild throats howling their ghosts at noon, eighty fanged angels buzzed by yellow jackets and the belch of oil tankers downshifting just over the ridge? Have you heard their long-boned whole notes of goodbye? Wolfwood Wolf Refuge, SW Colorado from Wild In The Plaza of Memory, Wings Press |
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