Wednesday Shout Out

Yes, poetry can be sexy and deathly and beautiful all at once.

The dark eroticism of this poem is an artful re-imagining of a familiar fairy tale figure—sexual hunger and desire disguised in wolf’s clothing. I love that there are two avenues for exploration here: the wolf in the writer is akin to Federico García Lorca’s duende, the dark creative forces within; and then the wolf as a closet homosexual. In either case, the lesson is the same: repression is dangerous. (Or, at the very least, detrimental to one’s political career. Cheers to Senator Larry Craig. Stay strong, girl.)
Miguel Murphy’s book, which was published previously as the winner of the 2002 Blue Lynx Prize, received a second life with this new edition and its glorious cover by the late Mexican artist Julio Galán.
He-Goat, Beast of Secret Pleasures
I am the last
wolf in the man, the man in the storybook
wolf: fear and lust
are my two great dilemmas.
The name of my novel is The Story of a Love Wolf.
Chapter One: “The He-Hunting.”
The look of longing grows long—
my father. I am finding out how
to love a man.
I am my wolf harboring the dark
heart like a secret, posted
on the blood-dripping
green walls inside. In Chapter One
I read him—
he commits an act of murder.
Then Chapter Two—
“Love-Wolf and the Slow Meal.”
By Chapter Three, one must forget who is a wolf,
a father, a hunger, a son
hunting men. Remembering lust
one places the pen
down on his desk and reads what he has written:
“He-Goat, the Beast of Secret Pleasures.”
What will happen to us, who love now
bleating out, being ravished and torn to pieces?
Other men in the story—they do not
understand what death can be
unleashing like a mouthful of hot
neck and struggle. Best to keep it
quiet. Best to fall asleep and not write
“The Moon in the Man Wakes Up.”
Father, brother, colleague, friend,
I remember now the feeling
of wearing too much hair
on the palms of my hands. And, Yes,
if you read the last entry, “He-Goat Speaks,”
I admit to loving the wolf
in return! In the Epilogue, I admit to my nature
possessing the sadist’s heart.
(From A Book Called Rats, Eastern Washington University Press, 2007. Used with the permission of the author.)