Where in fall they burn the dirt of Robert Frost’s own grave.
 
Where they call his ashes dragon and sift through them for teeth.
 
Where smoke is the only produce of the factories.
 
Where the man whose jawbone throbs must punch himself to sleep.
 
Where dawn’s the sun hung above a field of blood-wet greens.
 
Where the word blunt is just as violent as it seems.
 
Where grammar is the mutilated cousin of the breeze.
 
Where one’s children are the animals one can’t bring oneself to eat.
 
Where the appeals of songbirds are to be redacted from the trees.
 
Where cities are for rats and whatever tolerates the rat’s acerbic meat.
 
Where it’s useless tracing rivers if you’re looking for relief.
 
Where ground bones excel in any powder’s place.
 
Where it must have fur if it’s a masterpiece.
 
Where feeding flesh to fire is the only argument capable of grace.
 
 
 
 
 

“‘Here’s Where You Can Legally Own a Wolf’” takes its title from an October 3rd, 2013, headline on Slate.com.