Woof
a.
Her wolf gait leaps into night-sky airspace
charged with shape-shifting wolf,
electrical lights beam behind curtains.
Our loping Lupus shadowed
by cloud’s sinewy stride
and those left alive on the lip of high-plain land
howl through the mist
as storm wolves fall
from redwood wolves,
spirit wind wolves, clambering
wolves wearing goat coats to ward us off their scent.
b.
The gates one passes through in a day, in a decade: the tender gate of one’s scraped uterus, universe; skyscraper gates; elevator’s golden gates, a bridge to ecstatic ascension; one’s garden gate that opens onto velvety petals; our airport gate; an infusion port gate; those gale gates cross-venting, cross-stitching one’s four-gated heart; the cardinal-direction mandala gates that face the Celestial Mansion; one’s laptop gates; lap dancing gates; lapping up milky gates to level-up in a game, to dig down into mind gates; gate alerts to let you know when you’re banking; playing; when you’re dining; you’re dying; the gait of a wolf as she bounds across grasslands; the gate space between forest and desert with scrub and wildflowers that accompany a gazelle who arabesques, tour jetés, supports and sustains the she-wolf, springing through thorny shrubs, bounding, pouncing toward her, a tornado.
c.
Q: What’s in a wolf?
A: The woodsman or hunter or husband.
Q: Does wolf devour both the child and wizened witch?
A: In one bite.
Q: How does Red steal the teeth of her forebear?
A: Chomp, chomp!
Q: Invite a forebear for a meal?
A: Chewy bear and stringy wolf.
Q: Where does Red begin?
A: She eats their livers, their eyes.
Becomes their lover, lives through them. Becomes one too.