CINQUAIN Poem: We Find Ourselves Gripping at Wolves without Teeth, by Dani Arieli

Often,
we find ourselves
gripping at wolves without
teeth, so that we won’t be rare meat.
Well, my

boyfriend’s
best friend’s classmate
is a fox; of maple
shine, like our Canadian fall,
leaves spread

across
the fermented
sidewalks reaching beneath
the bridge I kissed him on, over
homework;

yes, I
figured there was
anecdotal research
to be had for Shakespearean
playwrights.

But the
fox still had teeth,
and I knew he had yet
to dress up and devour red meat,
at this.

Well, it
was on every
menu, was not this thing?
Always a chef’s favourite, I
recall.

Perhaps
my professor,
the Lammergeier in
dress pants, could explain why rare steak
was so

very
expensive in
the first place? Maybe, just
maybe, he could even try some—
but, oh,

that would
prove to be crude.
Besides, professors ate
marrow of deceased grades, Murnau,
and the

thought of
Nosferatu
dining students—order
of red meat, red wine, a napkin,
and zines!

Well, then,
maybe wolves with
teeth can walk my sister
home from the rock gymnasium,
and then

greet me
at the door, with
my mom glued to her screen,
watching women serving red meat
to mice,

hogs, and
bears, clearly starved
for the chef’s favourite—
just some rare meat, and a fork, please!
Well, it’s

just that
easy to ask.
I promise you, Skeeter,
it isn’t the end of the world if
you just

ask for
a fork, napkins,
maybe some wine, a zine—
if you’re nervous—a pretty grin
for that

oh-so
lovely lady.
Truly, gripping at wolves,
it’s as though we’ve all lost our teeth!
Well, just

know that
many of us
are far too picky to
order the chef’s special today,
the next,

and so
forth. We aren’t
rare meat, but we grip at
wolves without teeth, rare meat, tellies,
and zines