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116th Weekly Poetry Contest winner: WULFMONATH

by Che Sara Sara

Each year begins

when starving wolves

get bold enough

to raid cities:



We call it January

after the god of entrances

who guards the city gate,

staff in his right hand,

keys in his left.


A hand to open

and a hand to close.

Patulcius.  Clusius.

But nothing to hand

to the wolves.


One face looks back.

The other looks ahead.

Roman gold.  Internet stocks.

We're eager to toss

the first coin with two heads.


We're eager to ignore

a glimpse of gray tails

matted with snow

climbing metal stairs

from the fire escape below.

First published in Turtle Island Quarterly


See all the entrants to 116th Weekly Poetry Contest