After Being Raised by Wolves
I miss the tangle of brothers
over a warm perish
of fox or rabbit. The muzzle
and sniff in good sleep.
Rain sleeking my hunches.
Here, it is all corners,
daylight carried indoors,
a tale about a girl in red
which ends wrong
every time. The way they skin
themselves at night,
lie down as if to offer up
their bellies stuns me.
I visit windows now to glimpse
the world. My paws grow
useless. In my throat still lives
the sounding of my kind.
When I sit outside a hive
and listen to the deep
language of the business there,
I know belonging.