Wolf

by B. J. Buckley

Moon
splintered bone,
each cloud
a torn and dirty winding sheet,
a shroud for stars.
This
is what the world is:
killing
to stay alive: wasp
and caterpillar,
fox and vole,
the aging lynx in one last leap
to the back of a panicked
deer, clawing
for its neck, for red,
for warm, the beautiful simplicity
of blood
beyond which nothing
has any meaning,
bear chewing through flesh
and sinew to free itself
from a trap.
There’s always a knife
at the throat
of love,
some desperate hunger,
wolf
devouring its heart to save
its heart.
​
B. J. Buckley is a Montana poet and writer who has worked in Arts-in-Schools and Communities programs throughout the West and Midwest for more than four decades. Her recent work appears in Grub Street, Hole in the Head Review, About Place Journal, Dogwood, and Calyx.