Slick canvas leered beneath the screen, as when, six months ago,
I fell asleep worrying the heavy bag.
and as that pendulum swing caught life and animus like the twitch of a glove
turning and driving to my frightened elbows
the choke in my veins, my tongue shriveling in dust---
Then far-long, as my fingers danced, I knew again the catch of the spine.
And my lips grinned.
I feel long teeth
curving talons. It purrs and crackles
throat tightens, thighs fire.
The letters on the screen, and I remember that cult-chorus,
of a man who knows the world is drowning.
I saw drowning
the cries are silent
Just shoot the dog, you damn bitch.
Then I loosed wolves in me.
I cry PoetryPoetryPoetry hold my hands to my ears
and run, trailing soot in the snow
---and I tore wolf flesh, starved, clawing the carcass
with my little knives.
The rain washes.
It was an odd thing, painstaking, too broad for standard paper.
I never showed it. It was voices frozen
in their scuttling and howls,
big long sharp slick swatted on sooty tin, and still.
stabbing toothed ice pick
oh, yes, YEH-hess, ooh hoo ooh But wolves never howl vomit.
They never starve for hate.
Ah my enemy, you would know me now and fear.
I feel I am Scylla, and recoil from the serpents
in my palms. They don't scrub off...