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The wolf watches and asks me questions:
can I watch you eat,
watch myself absorb into you,
play with the cancer.

She questions everything:
even if I want to live,
die now or die later,
although that is
unanswerable or unquestionable.

That is the statement
life wants, love needs
in its haste to sweep up the ashes.
It wishes to be recognized.

I don’t know, I think,
knowing the wolf can hear me—
life, love, everything, everyone too.  

The answer is somewhere
on the drive to Graceland
as I stop to watch
the wolf suckle its cubs.

Maybe I just want a good death
that makes it hard to grieve
among the ashes of Nagasaki.

Life always wants the tableau,
the memento mori to remember
the repetitions.

Inside the wolf I can hear
my mother, grandmother, ex,
soon my father screaming,
moving, just going down, down, down….
into the silent cry of memory.

The wolf looks comfortable and wordless
as she listens to worlds turned to juice inside.
“It was good to know you,” she said,
as if she had known me my entire life.
A free portrait! Imagine that,
At no charge this troglodyte
Decided that I deserved a rendition in pulsing crimson, me!
He effortlessly sliced the curve of my face,
And then holding true to brute form,
Let his fists do the rest of the painting.
In a breath’s thought I fought the idea
That this strong browed man was a fan of
Yves klein, but then he caringly guided my sight
Floor-bound and I noticed that he was a
Monochromatic *******.

Now, I wasn’t expecting Monet,
But in truth the elegance of the lazy red river
Careening down my cheek and neck got my hopes up.

And then further was impressed by his liberalness
With bottomless black crimson
Where he’d only previously flirt with young pinot noir
As he took a break to wash and massage his stained hands
I clutched at the hope that perhaps he was done with the
Onslaught with such blunt tools,
As such methods could ruin the whole piece
Unfortunately, he returned
And his care for each swipe was becoming more

More impassioned, but less precise,
I asked if he perhaps needed a second break?
Perhaps I could assist him,
I wanted to give it a try myself, but my hands were

In vain,
I tried to tell him that,
His bearish skills and appearance,
Would be better suited to a life of leather, whips, and Oedipus Complexes,
But his response was,

You should never laugh at an artist
Especially the bad ones
Because then their work some how finds a way to get worse

I asked if he’d learned how to work from his father,
And whether his father had worked him in any
Manner, and that’s when I became dizzy
I think.
Apparently struck a nerve.
Anya Jun 2015
Is it okay to accept someone
Who made you feel so rejected?
Is it okay to respect someone
Who made you feel so disrespected?
Is it okay to be strong for someone
Who made you feel so weak?
Is it okay to love someone
Who made you feel so unloved?
Is it okay to still believe in something hopeless?

— The End —