Raised in
the Mouth of
the Wolf

Cassandra Whitaker

I grew up in the mouth
of the wolf, hung 
from fang and molar
as I learned to crawl along jaw
and lip, to break back my spirit 
to bones, denial denial denial 
that the wolf was anything but wolf. 
When I pass 
vines edging the forest I know
the tanglehome looking out
and seeing light diffuse 
across sight, the mouth
of the wolf assuming all, and curling 
up in a snarl, like a vine’s mind
curls. Hang on and watch
molars grind grind grind. 
A kind of mind that cannot stop
consuming, and assuming
all it sees is mine. The you 
in the mouth of the wolf
is the mouth of you starving
because the wolf wolfs all.
Learning to eat inside 
the mind of a wolf is a mind of want
of wanting mine and mine,
like a vine, the way flesh curls up
in the mouth, flesh of mine
so tender so mine, eager 
to escape their flesh to find 
a body outside
the body of a wolf
which is a mouth,
which is the world.