The Wolf licks my wounds clean each morning,
And the Lion lets me sleep in his mouth when cold.
I do not hunt or skin them for clothes like the others,
But hunt with them, killing what they kill, eating
What they eat, wearing nothing as I prowl, sniff,
Stare at the world from my red promontory rock.
My wife says that I am no hunter, that our children
Would starve before I ever laid a malicious hand
Upon the Lions’s golden mane or the wolf’s dirty
Coat of forest grey. She is right but bitter because
I do not sleep with her but in the forest with the wolf
And the lion who daily protect and purify the man
In me that is much like a lion and wolf.
Perhaps I am no Hunter at all, I admit.
The city is behind me, and all the wilderness opens
Like the Promise Land when Joshua first saw it,
The slaves, the exiles, within can relax and assure
Themselves of having ceased the endless wandering
Between work and home and anxiety and a job and
A job that pays the hunter to kill what he is made by.
Civilization, that gnarled bramble of dissoluble thorn;
Reckless, heedless, nihilistically unexamined emotion:
“Repent and repair yourself,” I say to the wind. I tell it
To carry my message to all the beast ranging the city,
And tell them I’ve found new but ancient friends.
I bid the wind farewell, knowing there is no farewell
With the wind and yawn and bark and get on all fours
And roar and howl and trot like I owned the Earth.
Galen Cunningham is a single father from Boulder, Colorado with his small son. Apart from writing poetry and short fiction, he enjoys walks in the park, hikes in the mountain, and long meditations.