The last wolf hurried toward me
through the ruined city
and I heard his baying echoes
down the steep smashed warrens
of Montgomery Street and past
the few ruby-crowned highrises
left standing
their lighted elevators useless
passing the flicking red and green
of traffic signals
baying his way eastward
in the mystery of his wild loping gait
closer the sounds in the deadly night
through clutter and rubble of quiet blocks
I heard his voice ascending the hill
and at last his low whine as he came
floor by empty floor to the room
where I sat
in my narrow bed looking west, waiting
I heard him snuffle at the door and
I watched
as he trotted across the floor
he laid his long gray muzzle
on the spare white spread
and his eyes burned yellow
his small dotted eyebrows quivered
Yes, I said.
I know what they have done.
Mary Tallmountain
Mary Tallmountain was born into the Koyukon people in Alaska, of whom Richard Nelson has written so eloquently. Her mother was of that Native heritage; her father was a Scotch-Irish soldier. She did not begin publishing poetry until the age of 50. Though recognized for her work as a writer, storyteller and the founder of a womens writing workshop in a poor community, she had a hard life. After a series of illnesses, she died in San Francisco in 1994.
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