“Hand Sewing Machine” (1927), by Arthur Dove. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Alfred Stieglitz Collection, 1949.
If nobody believes a liar
when they tell the truth,
then imagine it reversed:
the villagers sent home
from the field with nothing
but disappointing gossip.
Mother at her sewing
machine, the needle digging
in and out. You unhinge
your handsome face
from your wolf skull.
You remove your shirt.
Your still hard sex
collapsing into me.
Replanted in the tall grass
overlooking my village,
I shove rocks down my throat
to stop screaming. The minutes
I think are years unwind
until you unpin me, release me
to wind. My skin unkissed
by sunlight. You: your hands,
your terrible hands. Call back
the day still new and unknown.
Call back the hour I cried—
Wolf!—and everyone ran
to rescue me. Call back
the hour I cried—Wolf!
Wolf!—and everyone ran.
Call back the hour I saw you
bear your teeth and knew
what you were capable of
before the animal in you did.