The wolves, they haunt me
slinking from the poem about a lonesome one’s journey
springing from the book about their predatory value to the whole.
She tells me it is no accident
their coming to me,
and I long to greet them again
in night school.
Like the time four yellow eyes on two fierce bodies
bore down on me, snarling their intentions
and I lurched into Child’s Pose
one arm extended in supplication.
They left me alone then;
perhaps they couldn’t see my eyes,
couldn’t discern without that split-second exchange
whether I was a willing sacrifice.
“Yield”, she says; it’s not surrender.
And I am wondering how eyes can yield
in a body stiff with fear.