Poetry by Alice Collinsworth
When I was very young, my parents assured me
there were no wolves near our home, in spite of fairy tales.
Wolves lived in forests, in mountains, they said.
We had neither trees nor hills.
When I grew older, we visited a zoo, where I saw wolves
kept in cages, pacing, squinting through the insufficient bars
between us. Calculating.
Then came rumors of wolves roaming the plains,
sightings at local farms, small dogs
suddenly missing. I could hear them wail.
Then they came to live with me, right here in town.
They’ve built a den on the porch and they come inside,
helping themselves to sandwiches and wine,
sharpening the knives.
I no longer have a cat.
I slink upstairs and listen to their laughter
and the clink of silverware.
Helpless, I howl in anticipation.
Alice Collinsworth retired recently from a career involving journalism, writing, and media relations. Her poems have been published in several online journals, and she was twice selected as one of Oklahoma’s Woody Guthrie Poets. Her writing has won awards in numerous local and regional contests. She lives near Oklahoma City.
