Mute

I would like to drag the depths of your eyes
for words. I see them sometimes, darting sideways,
fleeing like hunted fish.
Such progress you’ve made since we found you—
a small lostling, a wolf-child, a fiend
eating crow’s wings in the forest.
Loud lungs. Wordless mouth.
To house you was difficult—ceilings scared you
but to gift you a name
(Marie, on a silver chain) gave me joy.

Now,
no longer kneeling to water, dancing ecstatic
over vanquished dogs.
Claws trimmed, hair neat, sharp stick set aside
and less of that shriek-speak. A blessing.
One word, Marie, a useful word perhaps?
The warning of wolves.
The promise of just-fallen fruit.
A texture—raw rabbit.
A scent—hay in winter.
A request.
One word.