Dear Ranchers, Wolves Are Kind

by Eva H.D.

Wolves are good. Wolves love cream cheese.
A wolf walked my daughter home once, gratis,
without ever trying to steal a kiss or jugular.
Wolves laugh, too, just like coyotes and landlords.

Wolves are a great species. They have been captured
on film. A wolf can suck on hard candy without
ruining her teeth. Wolves are pack animals, they
have self-restraint, they need no toothbrushes.

Wolves have hackles just like the ones that stipple
the backs of the women that you, Dear Ranchers,
touch without asking; the hackles rise and rise, a wave
of encomium, awkward gawking of the tiptoe crowd.

Wolves love summer for how much it resembles
winter, its elder sister. They love homemade popsicles,
how the juice that trellises down their silvering jowls
is made of real juice. Wolves have a powerful thirst.

 I myself have known wolves. Tone-deaf, immune to
criticism, abandoned and admired by the pack, in
equal measure, wolves I have known have failed,
repeatedly, to keep their word. The lacerations linger.

Wolves I have known to be among the best of wolves.
I have known wolves with whom I would trust my
ranch, wrench my right arm from its den of tendon.
Some of my best friends are men who dress in wolfskin.

Dear Ranchers, wolves are kind as their kind can be.
Their kits eat the same snacks after school as yours do.
They acquire a taste for blood as you did, hot wolf milk
scalding their infant throats. Like men they have been 

known to howl all night long—and to die,
right on schedule, before their time.

EVA H. D.

wrote Rotten Perfect Mouth (Mansfield Press, 2015), “38 Michigans,” and “Bonedog” (from the film I’m Thinking of Ending Things). She works in your favourite bar.