WolfFoxEggMoon

Diana S. Adams

art by Alayne Spafford

Wolf PlatesAutumn-oiled, evidence

of another portal, he eats

a patch of beets, our knees knock-knock, our arms form little V’s

to hide our tremblinginteriors, our voices escape

from their carpeted compartments. Wolf-love

(lunar, terrestrial)

torpedo-boats through night’s thintunnels, green-dark rooms

connect with water, wiltedlight, pepper smells of earth.

He’s tired of iron and hidesa 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 slopeof road. Offer up oranges.

His electric field can startsparrows, all inner forcesunmoored. Keep him close.

He can hold a live henin knife teeth,bathe it in road water.

Wolf Fox Egg Moon

I won’t tell wolf I lovefox, fresh eyes, hair red,

half-musical breath. In hacked grasswe 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 sharethe pavements opinion of light.

In dead brush, selfishfox streaks marks of intent.

Waiting for Snails

In our valley of ice we practice lookingheroic. We’re hungry, head-dressed with forks& cups, without one sign of anything

winged. Bat-eyed hunting dogs, a river of sicksturgeon, all of Wolf’s fears zig-zag,rash. Little barbs smart down his middle,

he’s sullen, pre-surgical, lowered. The doctoron a snow bank reads from The Book of SummerConversations, Wolf shakes, untwists.

‘This is going to be a fast trip’, both of us holdthe phrase in case it vapors. Sudden lichen-lightopens the possibility of snails, rain nests.

Purification

On Tonquin mountain we eatbowls 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 washyour curls, She, in our grave of air.

Quick Fish

A nice net is widening, tauntingout speckled brown trout. Rose-scented birdspeak peak, peak peak, hiding in the aldersthe musk-smoke-old-corn-coat of a cougar.

Wolf sends out thick-sewn running-at-youwarnings. Today’s wind, when it comes,is available for work. On the highway, hot truckssalt our fish with diesel exhaust.

Wolf, Pursuit

In the tree bed he runshis 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, waterinfected, interrogating papers. What happens

with avoidance. Fox might find a way,all summer washed in dirt, tragic but true.

Wolf Salad

There is an equationfor wolf-love: N=ðr^2+n,

a lopsided circle, an openmelon. Hands break off

lettuces, pleasure sleeps insidea salad. So many ancestors

eating meals in sweaters,spaces inside ice beneath

breathe, lungs. Every passing wolfshows up as a solution

on our window. Dog shrieks,each ache inside transferred to us.

Three Nights in a Tree

Weeks of handshakes, passing packsof royals milk us of all potential.

At night I hold the stuffed crowtighter. A holiday in maples shoots straight

from the sun, the air lends us keysand conversation. Up here we move by scraps,

covered in mirthy whispers. VenusErycina lies flat as cat, cracks

tender oysters. Electric leaves leadin B singing, do it, do it, do it.

Everlasting Wolves

Wolf croaks, the sound a rotten bellinside a swollen throat. Wide bison eyescow us down, their craggy weight

unshifting in grasses. We backwardto a tent of cedars. One lone camper at darksings 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