Thrownness


I found a litter of wolf cubs
thrown out in a brown paper bag
too young to survive on their own
I called them all Kurt, it means wolf in Turkish
one, two, three, snuffling adorably
nosing for warmth and comfort
but I can’t tell what is happening here
the papers are all trumpeting the news
of an earthquake, or a rigged election
but all I can think about is this.
It’s a dramatic paradox. I have to keep them
on the front seat of my crappy car.
Books are useless, Giraldus Cambrensis talks
about how to trap and skin wolves
but not what the cubs need to eat.
They don’t like dog food.
They’re OK with cornflakes and milk.
You would love their soft silky ears. I keep dreaming
we’re waking up in our old flat on Oystermouth Road.
Please write to me, I would love it.
I’m playing them Sibelius now.
They howl along, modulating an E-minor chord.

Geoff Sawers

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Geoff Sawers would like to hear them