IN THE BOOK ABOUT THE BRITISH SPY WHO IS ALSO A WEREWOLF THE SPY & A LADY WEREWOLF FROM THE PACK MAKE LOVE & IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LOVEMAKING THEY TURN INTO WOLVES & THE LOVEMAKING TURNS INTO FUCKING & THEN THEY ARE TWO WOLVES FUCKING IN A RIVER
after Robert R. McCammon
If you think this poem is about anything other than wanting
to make love to you until we are wolves & fucking in a river
then I just don’t know what to say to you other than
I want to make love to you until we are wolves
& fucking in a river.
This is not a metaphor. I am bored with metaphors.
My body is a metaphor for a body, a thing
that is not a body that I use to describe a body.
But enough about me.
This poem is about one thing & that is how when I think
of that book about the British spy I just really want to be a werewolf
& I want you to be one too & I want there to be a big river for us to fuck in.
That’s what I want.
The kind of all day long fucking that leaves us
gloriously ruined, our minds
a tundra, snow-buried, clean & twinkling & empty,
maybe a snowshoe rabbit milling about that we are
finally too tired to hunt.
So let’s break this down chronologically:
1) I want to make love to you
our skin blurred by sweat & snow, our muscles replaced by moonlight & our breath
a thousand fast sheets of winter, until bristling fur pushes
like gray grass through our flesh & our gums give way to bandoliers
& then 2) we turn to wolves
which is just what it is, us as wolves
finally finally finally finally o sweet finally
& then 3) we fuck in the river
as wolves with soft ears & miracle eyes, bending our lightning around each
others’ lightning & if God is something you’re into, God is everywhere, shaking
& bellowing, & if god is not something you’re into, Science is everywhere,
bewildered & blaspheming, I mean
let’s really delve into this. Let’s be clear because I don’t want to lose you
again: we are no longer human. We are two wolves fucking
in a brisk, cold river but our fur is keeping us warm & our hot animal
blood is keeping us warm, but for real, mostly the fucking
is keeping us warm & your body is a sky I want to sing into forever
& my body is the answering song
& your body is a long, long throat erupting with night language
& my body is a wolf’s body of speed & certainty & decision
& your body is a wolf’s body of unbuckling & ferocity & claiming
& our bodies are together let’s not forget
for the purposes of this poem they are together & in a river
& that day we went on the picnic & spoke of fucking
other people is gone & so too the months & months
of emotional exorcism, gone, gone, gone, we see now
a new kind of science, we can call the National
Geographic & tell them we have proven that time
turns to steam & leaves the body when two people make
love good enough to turn to wolves & end up fucking
in a river that is nothing but a tidal wave of forgetting
or perhaps all the doubts we’ve ever had
trying to reclaim us, but how they pass desperate & helpless
around the shape of our wolf-fucking. That’s what I want.
O that that that that that is what I want.
Do you know how soft my ears are, love? How soft
you make my ears by saying into them yes. By saying
into them I believe you. I believe in your body.
Odarling, the moon is full & this river is rising, is rushing
vertical, a tree of water, the song the wolf earth
sings to the sky.
Come let us fuck in it. Come let us drown in it.
Let me be carried at last to the moon
& over & over & over
Turning the long night tender
Let us all howl a hell yes to the moon together for Jeremy Radin.