His fur was white and gold. He didn’t act wild.
He cuddled up to me, then moved away quietly.
‘A dog,’ said David, ‘wouldn’t do that.
It’d be all over you, wanting more. But he’s wolf. Mostly.’
‘I like it,’ I said. ‘In that way he reminds me of a cat.’

Now that he’s older, he’s both tamer and wilder.
More wolf in the desert, more dog in the city.
Or so I am told, now that I’m far away.
I see photos. One pops up on my screen frequently.
He looks at me with his head cocked, ready to play.

The gold has turned dark – grey shading to black,
with a patch of triangular tan around each eye
and his muzzle and belly still white.
We talk in our minds sometimes, Dakota and I.
Not often, given that my day is his night.

I’m as far away as a thought, or a heartbeat,
but sometimes that seems impossibly far.
He’s been missing now for more than a week.
I wait and wait, I offer prayer –
stuck here on the other side of the Pacific.

Hours and days lengthen. Signs are, he’s stolen.
A stray as white as a ghost is sent by Spirit
to comfort David; he names him Spook.
But there’s a limit to any comfort.
Every spare minute, he continues to look.

Dakota seeks out his friends, gives pictures into our minds.
And phone calls come: he’s been seen in a certain area.
David goes there to dowse, follows the track
and howls. Dakota howls in answer.
But then he’s silent – though all around, loudly, other dogs bark.

I remember a gathering in a forest clearing.
The faeries there were friendly. I watched them play
with the young wolf at the edge of the circle.
They also welcomed me. So I call on them today
and ask them to restore him, as then they did a lost pentacle.

And the poem flounders, and the story wanders
into inconclusion, and I haunt the computer
waiting and waiting for news, or even
the confirmation of no news yet, or
anything except Dakota irrevocably gone.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2007

Fat free
Full of beauty
She sits in her perfect style
Un-wanting of me
A smell of deception
The taste of bitter urges
The giving of nothing
With empty eyes but judging
I still stand

A man, almost seven feet tall
Straight as a board
On the other side of the wall
Eye’s filled with disapproval
Un-willing to let go
Full of brutality and judgmental passes
As people walk in
I’ve cried a thousand hurricanes
I still stand

I take a leap in the dark
No way of finding my way out
My heart beats out of my chest
I hear whispers around me…about me
I have know where else to go
I have a chain holding me down
Afraid to let go
I still stand

You think I won’t make it
You believe I will fail
I will let you down
Everything hits me walking through that door
Sitting in this chair of unrealistic bondage’s
I close my eyes
I’m no longer here
I’m in peace
I still stand

Rianon (Refrain)

Alas! My ass is grass!
When stumbling stoned, I wander home
and face the frightful wench I love.

Alas! My ass is grass!
When she is told these doleful words
and learns I dared to call her ‘wench’

Alas! My Ass is grass!
So bottoms up! I need more strength
to face the frightful wench I love.