Poetry |

“Growing Up in the Mouth of the Wolf”

Growing Up in the Mouth of the Wolf

 

By age three, men terrified/me. I have picked up/this bone and chewed on it, gnawed/ on it. I remember being/powerless, alone/in the dark,/with men. I remember/men whispering/into my ear, it’s going to be all right. A man/holding onto all body/to keep me still./A man handed me a shotgun,/a pistol, a rifle./ Then held me down/so I wouldn’t feel the recoil,/my body blown back,/ my eyes empty/ of all but fright.//

Firearms enforce the wolf’s freedom. A boy/must learn to be/a wolf.//The wolf swallowed me. The men/of my childhood hated. They ate/with their eyes. The wolf swallowed me/ up, one bite at a time./

No. The wolf/swallowed me over/and over/again.

No. I lived/in its jaws. Let it chew/on flesh, mind. The wolf,/fear. The white/wolf. The wolf,/the father.

Father claims/he moved/his family to Virginia,/in the middle of the night,/so his children would not grow up/around a culture of killing, where killing/is the groom; it’s taken years to strip/away the fur and teeth. My father’s own/kingdom, the church, soft/cruelty. My father,/in his own way, was only removed/ from the pack, but not free/from the moon’s influence. The moon requires/blood from all wolves./I did not/ belong in my family,/but it was clear I belong/to my family, a thing to be shaped and shamed/and shamed and raised up/into what? A what? A wolf.

Contributor
Cassandra Whitaker

Cassandra Whitaker (they/them) is a trans writer from Virginia whose work has been published, or is forthcoming, in Michigan Quarterly Review, The Mississippi Review, Foglifter, Whale Road Review, Conjunctions, Evergreen Review, and other places.

Posted in Poetry

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