Public Republic

Keith Wilson

Photo: Ghetu Daniel

My metallic grey,
this cold static hush across
the frightened traffic of my forest.
My unfamiliar family, my food,
my quarry.

I prey alone,
head cocked to the side,
an ear to the needles of the ground,
and the other trained to heaven.
I am the truest of predators.
The taste of blood, sanctifying.
My heart never lies.

At night, I curl up within myself,
howl to the moon,
fetch the fertile crescent in my sleep.
The sky is pregnant,
pierced with my moaning virility,
I want so much of it,
that my words are seminal.

I am cautious of other wolves,
so I make-believe
that I’m feral, that there is blood
in my teeth.

I look at the Godless dogs,
my less-than-half-brothers,
and bare my grin
for show. This
is your kindred spirit,
your life lived long on a leash.