"Dire Wolf"

A weekly poem, read by the author.
Sept. 2 2003 2:07 PM

Dire Wolf

Listen to Lucie Brock-Broido reading this poem.

Sorrows, like a gathering of dire wolves, come in packs. To you,
I am not speaking anymore. Whom

Shall I address?

Now that you have gotten these things off
Your barrel chest, it is time for you to merge into the sobbing

Rain, like a one-room scene in Appalachia, smeared
By fog. I adored you as much as an aluminum

Bucket of storm after
A great unlovely silvered thirst. How

Nice for me. In the Pleistocene, the wild wolves roamed
In scattered sorrows over

Everywhere, prodigious in appetite, howling
At the hollow of

Everything empty like a throat coated
With the fabric of a bolt

Of red. There

  Slate Plus
Plus Roundups
Jan. 30 2015 11:44 AM What Happened at Slate This Week? Social media guru Lindsey Underwood highlights the most popular stories of the week, from the Patriots to Tom Petty.