by Cassandra Whitaker
I put the wolf’s emptiness into me
And into me I wanted
More of me, and more of the sweet
liquor of my own emptiness. Pressing
upon the sore open need
with a tongue, pain of more.
Once I put the wolf’s emptiness
into me I forgot all I knew. All
I remembered became a hunger
and a hunger became me. To escape,
like the moon, I borrowed
happiness. Happiness does not care
where it is grown. It is best plucked
and gathered, given away,
put in a glass of water
to color and pause all who pass
it’s body, happiness, grown
from some inert seed
which might as well be stone.
Cassandra Whitaker (they/them) is a trans writer from Virginia. Their work has been published in or is forthcoming in Barrelhouse, Hobart, The Little Patuxent Review, Foglifter, Evergreen Review, The Comstock Review, and other places. They are a member of the National Book Critics Circle.