where the wild things were

by erika

Last night,

I walked into the dark of the woods

wearing my wolf suit

(now a little tight in the thighs and worn in the elbows)

under my jean jacket and scarf.

“This is where the wild things are,”

the wind whispered.

 

Light from a faraway lamp post

cut through the trees,

cross-hatched and slatted.

How do you capture this light on film?

How do you capture this memory?

 

 

Without a boat,

I sailed off through night and day

and in and out of weeks

and almost over 30 years

and danced alone in the pines,

a wild rumpus in my heart.

 

(I don’t remember who yelled “Now Stop!”

and sent me off to bed, but that I did, and there I went)

 

Mostly now,

in the night of my very own room,

I am still,

(wolf suit hanging on the back hook of my closet),

and the world becomes my walls all around.

I long to get back

to last night

and long ago,

to the woods

and the time before I was tamed,

to that roaring, gnashing, and rolling girl

I remember,

that someone who loves me best of all.