A TREATISE ON WOLVES
At night the wolves are blue, a little phosphorescent.
There are wolves, you know, who peer out of windows and see the distance. Wolves who weep for their silent prey.
There are wolves who spread rumors pink and yellow, wolves who lick the necks of lace makers, furtive wolves, seasonal wolves. Jealous wolves in foreign cities.
There is winter blooming.
There are scholarly wolves who sleep in books, hermit and synthetic wolves. Absent, very, very absent wolves, wolves with no heart, the best wolves.
There are clay and wallpaper wolves. Arabian wolves with green turbans, occasional wolves and unconditional wolves. Certain wolves are trouble-free and the wind blows through them.
There are sun wolves. The shade wishes them well as they watch the sea. There are wolves like that.
Wolves don’t always dream, but sometimes they will.
Spring wolves, discount wolves. Intangible wolves who wear stockings and red lipstick on their chops. Chilly wolves, with feelings. Golden wolves.
There are oblique wolves who leave by day, who leave by night, and hopeless wolves with a look wolves should have.
There are furious wolves, wolves who think about wolves and wolves who think about whales. Under the wolves’ pillows, there are crime novels.
There is the hunger of wolves.
Some wolves, you know, have no memory, no pack. Often, they are young wolves in search of a face on which to lay their velvet coats.
And then, there are she-wolves.
Translation copyright c 2013 by E. C. Belli. May not be reproduced without permission.