Waiting for the Next Thing to Happen

Angie Porter, your father's wolves dance on chains
in the deep white snow, dragging moons
into the lawn. This is their weather, they know it better.

All summer they slept in a crater they'd formed
by pacing, metal links erasing grass & topsoil.
They lay there, panting. Slept and ate and wept

on their planet of hate. Now they sing
with teeth in the night. They lunge like ice
when we pass, erupt in the dawn.

They fly from their anchors, dig and dive.
By the end of the season they'll strike
windows through which to stare

at one another, to mount one another.
At a sleepover you said we could be friends
if I was pretty. Which was a lie, but also true.

What is it time lends its hate to? The same.
The same. Precision as napalm. How the whiteness
refuses to step out of the whiteness.

Hannah Craig lives in Pittsburgh, PA. She is the author of This History That Just Happened (Parlor Press, 2017). She has recent and forthcoming work in Diagram, Split Lip, Bateau, and Quiddity.