Today was the festival of the wolf, whose stalking and rending is forgotten, who stared at paradise with yellow eyes. Today is the day we exchange hearts of flattened paper bought cheap from elsewhere. There is no blood. Teeth are no longer sharp. What big teeth they once were, as curved, as sharp as the blade that sacrificed child to wolf while his clear blue eyes were looking elsewhere. Blood puddled on stone. We have forgotten the price of safety, forgotten how hearts were torn from warm flesh as light drained from eyes. See where a young girl with the same blue eyes walks the wild path. A hidden knife is sharp in her basket. It is not enough. Hearts can falter even before the grey wolf lopes from the wood. She has forgotten all that she was told. Her mind is elsewhere. All the things we need to see are elsewhere, hidden around the corners of our eyes. Is there something we have not forgotten? The scissors that slice red paper are sharp. As I cut I could whistle like a wolf, making what cannot be bought: conjoined hearts. Once there were twin brothers with killers’ hearts left to die in the desert of elsewhere. What does it mean to be mothered by a wolf, to see some sort of love in yellow eyes? No matter. They grew and in one sharp burst of anger all love was forgotten. There is so much that we have forgotten or buried in the place we call our hearts. Our vagueness takes the edge from all things sharp; our tame love has lost the map to elsewhere and bright sunlight hides the moon from our eyes, but the shepherds’ god always was a wolf. Watch in moonlight for the wolf, forgotten in open eyes, absent from bloodless hearts. Wildness still lurks elsewhere. Its teeth are sharp.
The Feast of Valentine