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Lupa

Our mother was a wolf she was
drinking from the river the water
flowing into her as if she were
ocean her eyes up from the silver
always watching ears tipped back

which was how she found us
caught by the roots
of a fig tree she plucked us
from the river my brother
in her mouth first
then me not crying not knowing

any reason for fear
only the rough question of her tongue
looking for answers
she became our mother then
and we grew and grew

to be men bigger than most
standing atop two different hills
a hundred black daggers slicing the sky
above me the birds circling above me
they signaled the place to build

and I killed my brother I had to
and only wish I hadn’t washed my hands
in the river the water
remembers so long
Posted 02/23/10
"Lupa" first appeared in Fall/Winter 2009 issue of The Journal (32.2)
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