The Wolf, On Being Assembled – by Sheila Hamilton

You cut out a torso, a head,
and four legs, front, hind.
My beginnings.
You sand them, you join them,
you prime, you paint.

Then it’s a matter of fabrics and hair.
A soft undercoat.
Thick coarse guard-hairs
to protect against wind and blizzard.
Claws for grip.
A tail.
I begin to look wolf-like,
not totally at home in your studio.

Having worked all day on me,
bringing this wolf-ness to the fore,
wolf-ness, wildness,
it is no surprise that you dream about me,
tangled dreams of bracken and darkness.

In the morning, you fit me with strings, struts
that enable two poses:
all-fours, for chasing down or escaping,
and upright, for surprising people on doorsteps
You give me teeth.




Sheila Hamilton is a widely published poet. A new collection is forthcoming in 2017 from Green Bottle Press. She lives in the North West of England between Chester and Liverpool and is a reviewer as well as a poet.



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