From Death Row, an Interview with a Wolf:
From Death Row, an Interview with a Wolf:
(Interviewer’s Notes: He stares at his hands as he speaks. His eyes
are sunken. Said it was insomnia, nights without peace,
that brought him to me.)
Fine, grade A meat. A feast, that girl—age nine—
all warm and soft and wet inside her red.
So tender, that dear child. How hard I loved
the curves of her. How hard she loved me back.
I watched her after school. I watched and thought
of she and I, entwining: days and breaths—
and teeth and bone—in the green belly of
some idyll dreamed up by Thoreau. She was
my newest house of straw, and I loved her.
I love her still—my love is a black moon.
And lovers should chew love to pulp, adorn
themselves with trophies of it: bands of gold,
small locks of hair, a dress worn once. These girls
in red, how deep my love for them, how sharp.
Appears in “Dante’s Heart”
Taken from “…hide behind me…”
click to hear me read this poem
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