You cut out a torso, a head,
and four legs, front, hind.
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.
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,
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.