You Never Know
The wolves rise with the moonrise.
As your breathing grows heavier,
more rhythmic, the wolves emerge
from their underbed lairs. They watch
you sleep. They watch you dream
the things which make you howl
in the forest of nonsense. They hear
that howling. The fine hairs in their
ears waft like anemone in the sea’s
undulations. The wolves leap onto
the quilt, patchwork of plowed fabric,
no woods for dens or caves. They lie
down around you like dogs, not friend,
not foe. The wolves wait for your next
move. You watch a raven circle, needle
of black stitching a wound in memory’s
sky. There is something familiar about
the bird, something in its cry that cuts
open your heart like the surgeon’s blade.
Still, you float unharmed on the white
river of sheets. But, the wolves smell
blood. They glide toward you, fluid
and feral. The raven departs, flies
through a hole you hadn’t seen. It
widens, opens like a porthole, the iris
of a blue eye, cold as Arctic air. You
step in: left paw first, then the right.
7/20/09
Guillermo Delgado's Untitled #14, 2009, mixed media on wc paper, 12'' x 9"
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Such beautiful, insightful and touching imagery in this poem!