BECKA MARA MCKAY
Meanwhile, the Wolves
The Book of Numbers commands us: Cry out
before God in times of catastrophe.
The whale’s children begin by whispering
until they’ve learned their lung songs and whistles
by heart. Imagine a splinter’s voice chatting
to the burnt-black needle, your hands like little
saints. Whoever chased the exiles from the gate
became the diaspora’s first disciple.
God repeated a rumor and all our faith
came bucketing from our mouths. Every forest
is the enemy of every other
forest, their battles boiling too slowly
for anyone to notice, like thunder
mumbling at first, fleshing out details
of the storm’s trajectory before choosing
a vocabulary for the whole story.