When You Love a Wild Thing

"...you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, ...[i]f you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

— Truman Capote (Breakfast at Tiffany's: A Short Novel and Three Stories)

When you love  a wild thing, 

you're rekindling your kinship 

with the wild. 

Every cell in your body 

remembers 

when you once lived free 

upon the land, 

when you lived the Old Ways 

we once used to 

understand. 

Part of you remembers 

when you hunted the deer, 

and part remembers 

when you were 

the deer being hunted. 

Both sides know fear. 

The part of you 

that catches your breath 

while your heart quickens, 

when that old gray whale 

turns her ancient eye on you, 

is the part that recognizes, 

but can't put words to, 

the message in her 

mournful song, 

about this planetary home 

where we all 

belong. 

I gave my heart to a wolf-pup, 

his eyes intelligent 

and true. 

He loved me more 

than anyone 

I ever knew. 

He remained wild, 

but left both

wilderness and sea.

In order to be with me 

he relinquished 

being free. 

And when it came 

his time to leave, 

he tried so hard 

to stay. 

Since he's been gone, 

it's like the wilderness 

itself 

has gone away. 

Now, when I walk, 

yes, I'm looking 

at the sky. 

I'm listening 

at each full moon 

for his lonely 

cry. 

I walk the length 

of his favorite river 

with tears 

that we're apart. 

But I'm glad 

I loved a wild thing 

because he 

fortified 

my heart.

One from 2011, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, as well as the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads. I miss my boy, still.