I Am Not Wild

By: Kaitlyn Knight

Placed among faces
with which I’m acquainted,
I find a time
where I was wild in a pack.

The sun rested and lent
the earth to its cooling brother.
That blind eye looked down on
five wolves, females,
before our prime.

The day was spent in celebration,
as was the night. Paws imprinted soft dirt.
Headlong we raced, young tongues lolling,
youthful eyes absorbing the moon-drowned road ahead.
Crouched behind bushes we lay in waiting.

We waited for the light-filled eyes of our prey,
speeding ever closer until our battle anthem rose behind us.
We charged, pelts glinting ethereal dances to the sky.
The car belted an energetic approval.
Startled by the noise, we fled, only to return to the hunt later.

We were not wolves.
Yet wild with our dim dances beside rural roads,
not to be remembered, nor found again.

Alone. Eyes glint only dimly,
darkened orbs that distract from keen teeth.
Precautioned people skirt left, right.
I crave only the life I live, with the moon and myself.
Being a wolf, pelt dancing. Being a girl, teeth clenched.

This poem was selected as one of the winners of our 2014 Wild Words writing contest.


By: Alicia Thurston

Astriferous by Alicia Thurston from The Telling Room on Vimeo.

“Fishnets,” was all the scraggly, doddering woman said on Thursday night.
Her mouth twisted, slashed into a smile; the ridges of them beginning to shrivel.

“Fishnets,” she’d said again and again and again,
whispering until even the silence had become annoyed; to such a point, it began
casting her voice back to her, to fill its absence. For she mustn’t notice that it too had left.

“Fishnets,” drawled the midnight sky, turning in and in and in;
rolling head over heels, for all the people below.

A few more fishnets for Friday, Saturday,
and Sunday too.

Fishnets until the meaning of the word had left her mouth, and all that remained,
was the implantation of the letters on the soaking ridge of her tongue;
in the far back of the cavern, at the very apex of her throat.

In wake of her word, languages arose, like planets in the void, or
jutted landscapes on the Earth below.

Languages that the woman herself could not speak, but somehow knew.

Like the bright blue plastic net within her hands,
which left behind slivers of parted skin and speckles of deep red ash.

“Fishnets,” cawed the woman Tuesday night, shambling down to the cusp of the waterline,
ankles shuttering and clasped by the wind that breached them; hands curled far too tight,
around the light dipped mesh.

Taunting the damp sand with the horizon of her toes, she stood,
a smirk blossoming across the field of her face.

She raised her arms; up, and up and up,
cast the net over the illuminated casket in the sky,
ignored the shrieks of stars and lamentations of wind; and all the protests - that were suddenly below her.

When the other side returned, she clasped it, pulled, and pulled and pulled;
until the moon had crumbled from the sky, and fallen to the lake below.

She continued on, trailing for a few more steps into the water, pulled once more;
and again, and again, and again - dragged that beast upon a shore, stared on as the dollop began to
swallow the grains of sand on the bed below it.

She turned her head from side to side; admiring her works done. The sky twirled on,
the stars scratched and scratched until they couldn’t. The moon remained upon the shore,
swallowing sand, drawing it into its heaving chest, tendrils of light fleeing from it’s edges,
scorning the distant sky.

The woman went to the moon wrapped in fishnet.

The newfound child placed her hand upon it’s forehead, smiled, and spoke:
“It’s good to see you old friend.
How about we speak again?”