“Never Steal from Wolves” recalls a solo encounter with a pack of wolves in Central Washington State. I question the morality of my initial sense of ownership over the scene itself, recognize the limits of my human body, and realize a soul-deep sense of veneration for our wild kin.
There is no neatly-folded laundry
in the undressing of the wild dead,
the opening of soft under parts,
the cracking of femur to release marrow, nor
the toothy shaving of flesh from bone.
There are no ashes cast in the wind,
no embalmed easing of final agony,
no flowers, no headstones, no will.
The headless vertebrae curves
poised to hoist antlers.
The ribs are trimmed unevenly
by determined gnawing
ragged edges embracing a lung-less hollow.
I stand in the aura of decay
in the presence of the fed and the fed upon.
I know I am not alone.
Raised hackles make no sound.
The forest shades out their watchful eyes.
Still I want a souvenir,
proof I stood in their presence,
walked where the wolf walked.
I begin to depart,
long jawbone hooked over my forearm.
I feel the deepest gripping,
the static of fear.
Not your elk. Not your kill.
I set it down—head low,
I leave much quicker than I arrive.
I got chills reading this the feeling of fear and veneration all at once!
I admire the many strong lines
potent language
the elaboration of the contrast between the human, with its habits and rituals, and the wild, where each is prey and preyed upon
the fragile veil between
the need to respect, enact, their separation
“long jawbone hooked over my forearm”
brings to mind, as do other lines, the potent language of Lowell
Thank you.