Campfire Coffee With Wolves
A poem
(Drawing by Yarbusova) Squat on the edge of my seat By a marigold tyrant Campfire coffee with wolves Curled in our circle, sweating As fine people of worn pelts, on cheap Wooden thrones, resting their teeth The pack laughs like the night we were Born good, as a last buffalo Runt flesh on the hill’s rise Or just luck hides behind the thought Your name in skin only, would fill a lean book Walls of Paw paws and Shagbark order The prying pyre; ruddy eyes follow cold shock Good beans and crik-water Mirrors burning in the iron pitch Steel laughter, muggy and fetched To draw you from the spiteful banks-words I Once spoke aloud with weak jaws Without fear, melody dancing along the razor Why, must you walk in the river’s spate anyway? We can make it through the quiet night I built a fire. I can ask the beasts to leave.
There is something ancient and familiar in this fire. As if the wolves were not only outside the circle, but also within us, sitting quietly and listening to the night.
Great poem Kyle. I love your art.