ADRENALINE (HUNTING THE MAN WITH THE VIOLIN)
- May 1
- 1 min read
By Liz Kendall
I ride the wolves,
nestled into the hollow of corpuscles,
borne on their bloodstreams, eddied and swelled.
Borne to the muscles for tension and flex,
borne to the organs for satisfaction,
borne on the breath,
the chasmed tongue a wadi for blood.
A wolf’s tongue is oasis, sand-rough sucking poolshielded by night’s ridged palate,
each ivory tooth its own bleak law of gravity.
Dark wet heat in the heart of the forest,
ice melts at the thought.
What is instinct? What is the kill? They never wonder.
The gold of their eyes is mined from my heart.
I have given them freedom, released their doubt,
forged them into pack like a sword.
Inside the hunted, my weak twin persuades him to stasis.
His music is played, but mine is lived.
Wolves carry no instruments;
there is no construction, no technique.
Man’s music thrills them to rivalry.
Oh swift snuffing river of fur,
oh rich lava of rolling joints and reaching paws,
oh the scent of myself on their sharp ascending aah,
resonant swooning ooh, the fall into hhh.
The absence that follows,
tingling the air with fear from the prey.
Don’t crowd it.
Relish that silence hollow with dread.