Art By Johanna Povirk-Znoy


Girl Speaking from Inside Her Wolf


In this hollow of red
hyacinth, I am the improbable

prey bird. Locked up
in warmth, in here I am held

by a love that doesn’t yet see
it’s gone sour.

How I cede
to your gait from this cavern

of beetles and blossoms.
The sway of your hips,

hind legs
I can feel underneath me

trampling the onion grass.
And how it lulls me, your song

of praises and whimpers, psalm
of hunger, of want.

Because I am the girl who waits
for the moon to rise

from its satchel
and hang: orange, round

at the back
of a vulture’s throat.

As I let down my hair
and follow the wolf-cries

into the part of night
I’ve mistaken

time and time
again, for home.


Here I lay curled, injured deer.
When you howl, a moonbeam

slides down your throat
to meet me: my eyes, anxiously-spinning

records—grow vacant
in this lone spotlight.

Because in your darkness
even a moonbeam is enough

to blind. How to answer
your snivels and songs

from here, where my voice is thin
in your voice, when your gut

is a pink and shimmering blanket
wrapping and wrapping around me

until I can’t say
the rest of my life. If you hear me, canine,

release me from the heat and heft
of your body. Know I am speaking

because I am spent. Know
I never asked to be held.


Hurl me. My wailer, my beast,
my songster.

In here, I am a cry
in your cry. I can no longer hear

our original song. Open your gullet
and give me the moon

midst the pine-cones: their scales
bending like animal-tongues

licking the night’s great wound. Love—
deny me

this dwelling. I’m full
of wishes and blood. Heave me back

to the ground. Let me suffer
again my own weight.