Calf
Love
You were lying
supine in the river. Held by the fevered
stream of breaking through.
You who were always
grieved by the deep
embarrassment
of human existence,
found exhilaration in display:
to write about ejaculation in traffic;
traffic over the river
drowning you out.
As if by word association,
one achieves release. As if—
but then it’s done.
Under the bridge and out of sight,
you
have to choose:
Do I sink?
Instinctually, you swim.
Yet only between the lines,
and
after the story ends.
Jejune
This tongue
was never altogether mine.
I dreamt a
guttural country,
desert
mountains at the heart
and woke up
parched.
I put my
ear to earth
for an
indication,
heard a
soundtrack—every song I knew
I had to
learn: how losing isn’t opposite
to winning,
One only sees the space
in looking back.
You were
every hydrant that July
I was on
fire. Heat inside me
adolescent
/ green.
What did
you see?
That value
would eventually
increase?
That one day
we would
face the parent range?
That language needs decoding
and translation (whatever we speak)?
Where do
dragons live?
—In
castles.
What do
foxes eat?
—Gingerbread men.
What’s as
soft as a preemie’s wrinkled knee?
Jackals
howled in the street last night,
beneath the
babies’ window.
Creatures
tempted
out of the
woods,
into the
heart of the city.
I heard
them eating off their knives,
licking the
blades
as if they
were lips—
I ran to grab the babies from their cribs.
Elana Wolff is a Toronto-based writer of poetry and creative nonfiction. Her work has recently appeared (or will appear) in Canadian Literature, The Dalhousie Review, Taddle Creek Magazine, Vallum: Contemporary Poetry, The Banyan Review, Eclectica, GRIFFEL, and Sepia. Her collection, Swoon (Guernica Editions), is the winner of the 2020 Canadian Jewish Literary Award for Poetry.
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