Wolfman
Hear an audio version of this piece
I. The Fathers eat sour grapes and the children's teeth are set on edge.
(Dad 1914 - 1989)
"Even a man who is pure of heart
and says his prayers at night can
become a wolf when the moon is full
and the wolfbane blooms bright."
Once we shone like small moons
in the silver lined dark.
Each Saturday's filmy horror
sliding across our blankness,
waiting always for the long
coated stranger to slip
in next to us, the black hairs
curling on his restless hand.
We locked our legs against him
and never told the tale
--afraid we could not come again.
Each dream drenched night
the wolf man stalked my bed.
Father separated me
as he had once been
cut from the flock.
In a dim house of spells, now,
my coat pulled taut,
I pad the sticky blackness,
to watch again among moonlit faces
--an itch within me,
from the star circled one.
II. Photo Finish
He's not at all feral in this one,
except for his hands,
hard as wolf pads,
desert crags for nails.
Each cut or burn was never covered
until it crusted to craters,
seaming, reaming his fingers.
He wears a suit coat--
I remember only coveralls.
I was afraid of the tee shirts
and their smells. But in this one,
he bends, his tie like a broken leash.
He places his head closer to us.
His hands dangle or are ready to spring.
He's very young in this one.
You can hear the peacock shrieks
from the farm tales,
where all he saw was the back of a hand.
And the city stories of sleeping in garages
with Dusenbergs, Pierce Arrows and Model T's.
I am young in this one,
I still reach for his hand.
III. The Wolfman, my mother and me.
I knew the wolfman's story,
And at first it made me sorry
But his pentagram pointed to me.
My mother was always a monster
or so I saw her then.
But daddy the demon father
could change no matter when.
He taught me of grass and trees.
He taught me the fear of men.
He taught me to read with ease,
to love and hate myself then.
And so I fell in love,
at least one time a week
with a new celluloid man,
with real ones--
played hide and seek.
He came last night in my dream
'the sailor that rose from the sea.'
I told him before all hands.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be:
Yo no soy marinara."
and he smiled to me,
"Oh, but you are a sailor,
come read The Sea Wolf with me."
V. On another day
(February 21, 1989)
In the white room,
left alone with you:
dead child in my womb
or Christ in the tomb.
I could stretch my hand
to smooth your hair
(now I could dare)
to travel the road
of your forehead
down the long straight nose
to your mouth
and silver stubbled chin
--no one within.
You went fast.
We'd always said,
"Slow down. Wait for us."
Did you see the girl
trying to stretch
her legs to keep up?
I ran from you, too,
from pantries where the reward
for the secret touch
was small sweet silver balls.
--They say death is a trip
down long halls.
Amidst dust and dry air,
we uncover your policies,
one by one.
--the cents, samovars,
stamps, Sunday papers,
potpourri jars, stars,
Puzzles (of which you
were the greatest).
Marbles rolling on the floor,
I've loosed them, lost them
in the search for you.
(It's not over, yet, is it?
Only when the fat lady sings.
Is that me?)
Persephone to Hades
(Four months later, my birthday)
Free of bodied walls of memory:
I can travel with you
through underworlds and the stars
--with you my tutor, wounder, and friend.
The darkness will not scare me.
I will wear it like a gown.
And the sifting and the shifting
will frighten me no more.
I know well the tremors
in the land that we explore.
When doubt flickers over the plains of my face,
I will wait. I will wait.
As you sit beside me, under earth, over sky;
your voice will surround me
like the clear white of egg.
You taught me like a trickster,
like Hades took me down.
And in the shimmer of ice time
when the snow colors come,
their cold will never burn me
for you have shown me how
to view them like paintings
--to take that one step back.
Now your hand won't make me fall.
All shapes shrouded then,
I will see through new eyes.
The whiteness will not blind me,
I will remember what it hides
and know that seeds can live underground.
And when it's time to climb the clouds,
to face the chill of Jupiter and the Nebula of Liar,
trust can come with me
like the curve of your arm
-by the final stroke, disarmed.
And at my tug on your sleeve,
the sky will turn into your eyes
And I will know that country blue and deep space black,
welcome: home shore.
VI. Six years to the day
You were to be reborn
in the tree we planted in your memory, in California—
where you wished to live.
I dug the hole, placed the tonka cars
in the four directions,
gave you silver coins,
and Kennedy stamps.
Kept vigil as the coyotes
hunted that night.
Little green acacia survived fire,
ice, rains, winds and drought,
grew high above me,
flowering yellow,
seedlings red-brown.
And then the land was sold.
For a while I wore your winged seeds
on my cowboy hat,
until they blew away.
With a boy's marionettic energy,
you come to me in dreams.
In the last one we drive
to my wishplace in the west,
always a town called Trinidad, Colorado,
with its mountain: Fisher’s Peak
and its deserts yucca spiked.
This time we go to buy kachinas
made by the medicine men.
But first, we have to join
the historical society of the town.
We can't stay the three days required,
so, we take labyrinthine alley ways
back to the main street.
You'd think in so small a place,
it'd be easy to find, but we don’t.
Then I ask you to go with me to the outskirts,
the childhood home of the friend,
who'd helped me leave you when I was 21.
On the way,
you and I explore fake jails,
ghost towns, carnival rides,
and someone’s funeral rites.
Almost there, I wake up.
But I think we're close
to finding the place,
now.
(Dad 1914 - 1989)
"Even a man who is pure of heart
and says his prayers at night can
become a wolf when the moon is full
and the wolfbane blooms bright."
Once we shone like small moons
in the silver lined dark.
Each Saturday's filmy horror
sliding across our blankness,
waiting always for the long
coated stranger to slip
in next to us, the black hairs
curling on his restless hand.
We locked our legs against him
and never told the tale
--afraid we could not come again.
Each dream drenched night
the wolf man stalked my bed.
Father separated me
as he had once been
cut from the flock.
In a dim house of spells, now,
my coat pulled taut,
I pad the sticky blackness,
to watch again among moonlit faces
--an itch within me,
from the star circled one.
II. Photo Finish
He's not at all feral in this one,
except for his hands,
hard as wolf pads,
desert crags for nails.
Each cut or burn was never covered
until it crusted to craters,
seaming, reaming his fingers.
He wears a suit coat--
I remember only coveralls.
I was afraid of the tee shirts
and their smells. But in this one,
he bends, his tie like a broken leash.
He places his head closer to us.
His hands dangle or are ready to spring.
He's very young in this one.
You can hear the peacock shrieks
from the farm tales,
where all he saw was the back of a hand.
And the city stories of sleeping in garages
with Dusenbergs, Pierce Arrows and Model T's.
I am young in this one,
I still reach for his hand.
III. The Wolfman, my mother and me.
I knew the wolfman's story,
And at first it made me sorry
But his pentagram pointed to me.
My mother was always a monster
or so I saw her then.
But daddy the demon father
could change no matter when.
He taught me of grass and trees.
He taught me the fear of men.
He taught me to read with ease,
to love and hate myself then.
And so I fell in love,
at least one time a week
with a new celluloid man,
with real ones--
played hide and seek.
He came last night in my dream
'the sailor that rose from the sea.'
I told him before all hands.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be:
Yo no soy marinara."
and he smiled to me,
"Oh, but you are a sailor,
come read The Sea Wolf with me."
V. On another day
(February 21, 1989)
In the white room,
left alone with you:
dead child in my womb
or Christ in the tomb.
I could stretch my hand
to smooth your hair
(now I could dare)
to travel the road
of your forehead
down the long straight nose
to your mouth
and silver stubbled chin
--no one within.
You went fast.
We'd always said,
"Slow down. Wait for us."
Did you see the girl
trying to stretch
her legs to keep up?
I ran from you, too,
from pantries where the reward
for the secret touch
was small sweet silver balls.
--They say death is a trip
down long halls.
Amidst dust and dry air,
we uncover your policies,
one by one.
--the cents, samovars,
stamps, Sunday papers,
potpourri jars, stars,
Puzzles (of which you
were the greatest).
Marbles rolling on the floor,
I've loosed them, lost them
in the search for you.
(It's not over, yet, is it?
Only when the fat lady sings.
Is that me?)
Persephone to Hades
(Four months later, my birthday)
Free of bodied walls of memory:
I can travel with you
through underworlds and the stars
--with you my tutor, wounder, and friend.
The darkness will not scare me.
I will wear it like a gown.
And the sifting and the shifting
will frighten me no more.
I know well the tremors
in the land that we explore.
When doubt flickers over the plains of my face,
I will wait. I will wait.
As you sit beside me, under earth, over sky;
your voice will surround me
like the clear white of egg.
You taught me like a trickster,
like Hades took me down.
And in the shimmer of ice time
when the snow colors come,
their cold will never burn me
for you have shown me how
to view them like paintings
--to take that one step back.
Now your hand won't make me fall.
All shapes shrouded then,
I will see through new eyes.
The whiteness will not blind me,
I will remember what it hides
and know that seeds can live underground.
And when it's time to climb the clouds,
to face the chill of Jupiter and the Nebula of Liar,
trust can come with me
like the curve of your arm
-by the final stroke, disarmed.
And at my tug on your sleeve,
the sky will turn into your eyes
And I will know that country blue and deep space black,
welcome: home shore.
VI. Six years to the day
You were to be reborn
in the tree we planted in your memory, in California—
where you wished to live.
I dug the hole, placed the tonka cars
in the four directions,
gave you silver coins,
and Kennedy stamps.
Kept vigil as the coyotes
hunted that night.
Little green acacia survived fire,
ice, rains, winds and drought,
grew high above me,
flowering yellow,
seedlings red-brown.
And then the land was sold.
For a while I wore your winged seeds
on my cowboy hat,
until they blew away.
With a boy's marionettic energy,
you come to me in dreams.
In the last one we drive
to my wishplace in the west,
always a town called Trinidad, Colorado,
with its mountain: Fisher’s Peak
and its deserts yucca spiked.
This time we go to buy kachinas
made by the medicine men.
But first, we have to join
the historical society of the town.
We can't stay the three days required,
so, we take labyrinthine alley ways
back to the main street.
You'd think in so small a place,
it'd be easy to find, but we don’t.
Then I ask you to go with me to the outskirts,
the childhood home of the friend,
who'd helped me leave you when I was 21.
On the way,
you and I explore fake jails,
ghost towns, carnival rides,
and someone’s funeral rites.
Almost there, I wake up.
But I think we're close
to finding the place,
now.