Once they came down only at dark
from the canyons. Now they trot out
bold in daylight on sunlit pavement.
Still, if you move close, they vanish fast
into shadows under the freeway,
blocks from the ocean. Up beyond
the flammable mansions on over-
built lots, where they once burrowed
safe, gave birth to ravenous young.
Now they watch under scaffolding
swinging above sliding foundations.
Near the homeless tarps, scattered
fires. Wolf instinct awakes in the
once-wilderness. They’d feed at your
jugular. You mean nothing to them, you
who believed in the evolved domestic.
Hunger, not love, draws your dog.
The need in the gut. Each choice
made in your life sentimentalized.
Like the young you fed first. Gone
too when you return with nothing
but your worn advice on how to survive.
This poem appears in the December 2025 print edition.
Great Job Carol Muske-Dukes & the Team @ The Atlantic Source link for sharing this story.
