Wolf Den, Run
sister, don’t you know we can become
kings?
people used to suffer from these spells,
they would dance until they died of exhaustion—
or came close to it.
this always reminded me of hungry dogs,
gnashing teeth and salivating mouths,
hunting until they couldn’t hunt anymore.
stomachs dissolving themselves for protein,
eyes roving over forest for game.
they could die on fire and wouldn’t even notice.
please sister, picture us in the weeds—
before we learned our mother’s civility
and our lack of paternity— grace.
picture us there, smelling of soap
and orange rinds, clementine juice sticky on
pinky fingers. picture us there, sister,
screaming ourselves raw and purple.
picture us there, sister—
don’t make me beg.
you wouldn’t like what can be seen of my
teeth.
sister, don’t you know mama lives in my
mouth?
sister?
if sisters can be knights then surely daughters
can be kings and mothers can be
the weapons of beasts
clanging against gnashing teeth
and bloodied flesh
when exactly does being turn into
becoming? when the daughter becomes the mouth?
when mother devours self? when mama rots—
sister. knight. supplicant.
sister drove a hunt once, looking for our mother.
the hunt lasted throughout several nights,
knights in shining armor with swords painted
red crashing through forest long dead.
sister found our mother there, amongst the bones
of the dogs, and dropped to her knees in front
of an oak older than kings and dogs and supplicants
and God. sister wept and begged and stilled.
sister, i tried to tell you that mama lives in my mouth.
***
Olivia Patrice Winkelman is a poet and writer from Colorado currently pursuing a BA in Creative Writing. She has an forthcoming publication in her university’s literary magazine, Tempered Steel. Olivia can be found on Instagram @oliviajpatrice and elsewhere… probably.