Where Does the Wild Live?

Where does the Wild live, I asked

the concrete: a visage of grief,

broken and scarred.

In my heart, she said,

in the rock and limestone,

crushed and emptied

beneath your feet. Listen deep

to your footsteps; the rhythm

of loss.

I asked the glass, so naked,

so transparent, I looked away

for what I saw. In my bones, she murmured, 

my bones of sand. I remember 

the sea, the salt and how the westerlies blew.

I saw the world

in who I was.

I asked the plywood, the cross

and the table where food is served

and nails are driven. In my veins,

she said, where blood ran free, now

imprisoned in a pattern:

the sacred 
denied.

I asked the electricity that runs

through my life from laptops to videos,

microwaves to fans. Look 

to the rivers, she said, where music is born,

then listen to my hum:

the detritus of song.

And plastic, I asked,

where does the Wild live? 
In the deepest of genes, said a voice

like my own, remains of the ancestors

deposits of folly. I am

the shadow, the darkness 
that lies in your heart.
Do not try to control me—
you cannot.

Where does the Wild live, I asked the stars,

so far away, untouched

by me. In your soul, they said, 
go to your soul. But I knew

my soul

was nowhere

to be found.

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