Hannah Lamb-Vines
domesticated
who said a wolf can't change his mind? alpha
strategy, fur-lined war games. replicat
-ion, or propagation. red-toothed howling
hunter hungers ‘cause that kill won't last. con-
sider a pack to feed a possession.
moonlit valley, or the will to live? yeah,
wolves want to live. what does that make me? un-
natural? take the lone wolf, trailed by her
own empty belly. she's survived this long,
some longing in her stalking. so she stalks
something longer, the liminal looking
like seduction. seeking something alpha,
replication. with shadow wolf, i want
to live. a possession? what does that make
paying rent
yeah i like it raw.
a bedroom studio, a dog barking.
a lifetime of no erased in one night.
starting
at the roots,
in this case rhythm. who has it?
there are some things the body’s not
meant to do. there it goes
that cop car barking, that siren
howl. wolves don’t own economies.
they have it, we don’t.
a lifetime of knots untangled.
break to bleed on white blankets.
i’m not responsible for what
the question concerns: object and agency.
i could be better, but why should i?
portraits of artists are going to be ugly.
there i go
wringing the rag dry.
you just have to accept it,
if you know me, you might
show up.
a reflection where it’s unclear
what’s solid,
what’s just a pane of glass.
siri says it’s not nice right now but it should be later
yeah, want a world
where pick up trucks and
king beds don't make my
toes ache. where magic
don’t mean denial.
where horses talk back
and the moon blah blah...
is that anything?
a lotta wanting
leave me lonelier.
so i wonder why
the lovers run when
they could just, like, sit
next to each other,
hot cheeks hot lips hot
hands not quite touching...
and the moon blah blah...
i've been wanting some
thing. like, any bare
skin touch or kneecap
graze. my dry face flakes
away metaphor.
i've cleaned the house of
poetry, took two
showers today to
blah blah the dead stuff,
still can't find that fresh
new shine. enough, moon.
you mock me, with your
silver grin. is this
anything? do you,
moon, blah blah with the
tides? tomorrow i'm
a fig, yearning for
a wasp. tomorrow
is the start of blah
blah, the moon digging
her dirty finger
nails into me. like,
what does she expect
to find there, you know?
do you, moon, know? don't
you, uh, know there’s no
tomorrow? my knee
caps knock against each
other. they neigh, like
no, that’s me, my howl.
who howls back? any
body? the moon looks
like a bellyful
of future. hey moon,
did you eat all the
tomorrows? did you
blah blah my picket
fences, king beds, pick
up trucks, straight toes, horse
tongues? oh moon, i am
projecting. i want
to say i’m sorry,
but my lungs are stuffed
with pride. i might buy
a gun instead. is
that enough of an
apology? is
that, you know, blah blah...
is that?