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Night again, the older kids asleep 
upstairs. Downstairs, I hold 

the baby. On the couch, his resting 
head turns my left arm into dreams

the lonely sun has of being 
a bundle of fruit. Our TV screen lights 

the side of the old celebrity’s face: 
a commercial where he saunters 

between two wolves. The sky, a guitar 
riff slicing through an unbelievably ripe 

grape. Earlier, at supper, I pulled a chair 
next to the kitchen window so that the older 

kids could watch the moon climb 
through a tree. I asked if they, too, 

thought it was beautiful. Now,
my baby snores and I wonder if I’ll know 

when to stop calling him my baby before his 
red embarrassment reaches me. I’ve discovered 

Time is a slug 
with sudden wings. Everyone is 

excruciatingly exquisite in the McDonald’s 
commercial playing next. As if night 

will never arrive. The actor-father sits 
next to his actor-daughter, smiling. Her small hand 

curls around her own cheek. Her giggles make me 
believe. Their love is 

well lit, a picnic. My baby boy 
jerks his arm up as if remembering 

a question. Between the actors, a glowing 
display of spilt fries, followed by

an overheard shot on the perfect 
double cheeseburger bitten

into crescent. In the future 
where there is no future, 

everyone misses the moon.

The Wolves, Plural

They’ve come for me. From the woods, past the soybean fields, and through where the prairie grass grows. When they arrive they arrive by night. As anticipated, as hoped for. The bell in my birchwood heart is ringing. First, my shadow goes to them. Then teeth and tongue. Awake, I find my brown slippers missing from the bedside, a dewy glass of water on the floor in its place. I finish it in a single swallow. 

I used to be afraid—of being reached. But it’s important—to be known like this, to let yourself be called into the dark and accept the sweet berries straight from a bent branch, to no longer feel the need to wipe away the juice.