For the Wolf at the Door

For the Wolf at the Door


While I type
         in she trots
                     out of open daylight,

a hundred pounds of girl wolf,
         her laser-gaze golden,
                     her soft ears half cocked.

When I lean down
         to rub muzzles with her,
                     sandgrains on her chin

give her away:
         She’s been
                    in the garden again,

devotedly burying bones
         or digging them up,
                     and now she’s smuggled

into the study
         with all its musty books
                     the stuff of fields and forests,

the odor of
         earth freshly stirred,
                     in a word

fertile ground!
         Bless you,
                     Lulu Garou,

You’ve done the work
         cut out for you.
                     Now let me do mine.