Kissing the Wolf
What wolf, that kissed me so, and in kissing me
kissed himself, together we fell into a single pleasure
he and I, pressing my kisses into his emptiness,
saying do and do and do, the wolf
whispering into my ear, which was his ear
that afternoon in the dark apartment over the ache
that was the city; the city, our careless care
open like a song is open, ready to be
quickened to chorus, then left alone
to finish its breath. Breath was all he wanted,
was all he gave, leaving me, which was himself,
singing alone in the city’s emptiness, which was mine.
The Wolf Leapt Through Me, The Wolf Leapt/Through Me
and with it took/the worst of loss–/my cups,
my cups, my listing/cups that the wolf took
as it leapt/through me, me The wolf leapt/through
the honeyhut/and took with it pollen
memories and made/a sweet liquor of two
and leapt through the ocean/and with it took
all the breath it would ever need in
the ocean’s ocean, time/and emptiness
time pretends is nothing. Nothing/was I
in sobriety’s aether/until I
arrived/by waking up. The voices/called
my name. A chorus/called. My name leapt through
me/returned to me/my singing high
my laughter hi,/my mirth, wealth/of laughter,
a liquor without a cup./To not answer
is to return/to where the wolf leapt/through.
My name. How could I not/answer my name?
Cassandra Whitaker (she/they) is a trans writer from Virginia whose work has been published in Michigan Quarterly Review, Beestung, Conjunctions, and other places. They are a member of the National Book Critics Circle and an educator.