by Amy Elisabeth Olson
wolf 1
when he visited me last
night he left me
with three black hairs.
each one he said
would allow me to change
a moment past. with a wood
match i lit one on fire
and inhaled the thickness of burning
hair. with a bone needle i wove
the other into a ball of yellow
yarn. i spent four days knitting
a scarf and wore it instead
around my waist. i pressed the
third hair across my tongue and
let it stick between two
teeth. when i woke up this morning
it was there, still. i am sure
it will never not be.
wolf 2
i yellowed together the wolf-worn
tatters, gathering wool and teething
apart patches. the blunted scissor
legs clasping together fabrics long
left in willowed grasses.
you left me pausing
and watering, you left me
wolfing and sallow. maybe not as
edgeless as to seam, but you left me
much more toothy than green.
wolf 3
from the no
rth the win
d floated
to me a how
l. i under
stood i
t to be a sign
that my tend
er predator was still the
re, though no
t haunting me any
more with his teeth,
anymore with his hair.