GABE NEWMAN
The Wolf
Pull toy simulates fighting
over hunk of meat.
Underneath the layers
of mixing and breeding
The spark remains,
the wolf is buried:
The collar is gone,
The stage is set;
Grove of poplars, high
grass swaying under the grey sky.
Bulldogs are bred to gasp.
Like Prey, caught in the clutches.
“Mom, should I make Puppy’s dinner
Wet or dry?”
The answer is:
Prey.
Weathered hide
Feeling the air
Great coffee brown eyes
Watching from the deep woods.
“We should bring Puppy In,
the Owls are out tonight.”
The great eyes break flesh
long before the claws. The legs move.
Like dripping wax.
Sitting prey.
Squirrels linger
From a distance—
Out of reach
For collar
And leash
“Puppy sit.”
And pray.
Gabe Newman
Gabe started life in the nest of a Hooded Warbler and has been searching for migrating neotropical birds ever since. He spends most days attached to a pair of binoculars or writing. Gabe often thinks deeply about the squirrels of Prospect Park and little else. He hopes you enjoy his poem and wants to remind you that every word is true.
