by Katie McCarthy
My mother is a wolf
long nights spent alone wandering the mountainous range
visualizing death on the forest floor
pawprints left on the soft lunar earth
warm and piny
bristles and thistles stuck to the fur of the haunches
knotting, gnarling, stabbing
the thigh
burrowing into the flesh
to be concealed by matted coats
My mother is a wolf
who has rejected the pack
taken her two pups by the scruff of the neck
and left the civilizing forces of kin
watches the sunset and the moonrise
with no howl
only snaps and breathing
abandoning her native tongue has left no empathy in my mother’s eyes
her wolf smile beckons
and promises milk from the teat
but as I lay my mouth upon her nipple to suck
my ear traces no heartbeat
and yet
the milk that trickles onto the tongue and down the throat is warm and
sour fresh
my belly
– full
my fur
– soft
I roll onto my back and lick my coat in satisfaction
My mother is a wolf
whose prowling turns my world to shadows
my eyes that beg and give compassion must close to the ripping
of muscles and tendons, the breaking
of bones
of the predator in our home
my mother’s jaw clamps tightly around her
the shattering of teeth and bones are hers
— but she cannot know
My mother is a wolf
driven towards extinction
poisoned, trapped and shot
tagged and surveilled to protect and ensure the
wetness of her chaffed nose
My mother is a wolf
whose power lies in cunning anarchy and rage
whose power lies in the uncompromising love for her pups
failure to comprehend their cries and whines on cold floor
attacking demons that fragment trust
My mother is a wolf
she lies alone
curled on the clay floor
eyes closed
nose tucked into tail
the earthshakes
and she does not awaken
Katie McCarthy: hip breaker, money taker, word maker.
