Tags
female wolf, poverty, secret love, sonnet, taboo, varghonans, winter
* * *
It has turned bitter. The mountains look scarred
and blue in this light. Up from my village
is a waterfall; last night it froze hard.
Ice scares me. Far out in the dark savage
spaces I can hear wolf calls and other
voices, too. The rays of the setting sun,
ghostly, shines through our cooking smoke. Lover,
you are with your pack. Your clan that you run
with, that would kill me for blood sport. I hear
your song that hovers up in the cold air.
A song of the wild hunt warming my hut.
No one knows that you love me, for you fear
for my life. It’s why you keep our affair
from your Varghonans sisters a secret.
Scandy She-Wolves. Grandmother warned me about them…but a taste never hurt most people. You must prowl some unique corners of the bookstore. Just got back from a nude wiffle-ball tournament…camera battery was run down to nada…was thinking of you. Some Costa Witches cast spells on gringos down here. Enough to warm the heart of northerners.
Later…
you go to a nude wiffle-ball tournament and the battery on your camera dies … i am truly sorry to hear that. just the mental image alone demands photographic proof. that and now that i’m thinking about it we need more poems featuring wiffle-ball bats!
I swear…right on the touristy beach. I like to dress things up a bit, but not the nude wiffle ballers. Usually kept down on Langosta, lobster beach where the Europeans hang out. But right here…in front of Puritanically polluted Americans and Canadians. Where will the madness end…or is it just beginning?
Later….
The nice thing about history is that it lets us know the madness will never end, which some might think a bad thing but anytime we get to outrage prudish Americans and Canadians it can only lead to good things. Cheers!
🙂
I hope wherever you are, my friend, life is good. Do take care, the roads outside are slippery (well, at least up here in Michigan that rings true) Cheers!