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Time of the Wolf (2003).

Time of The Wolf (2003)

Everything'll work out. Maybe tomorrow even ... And our mouths
will water with roast pigeons, and maybe the dead will come back
to life.

   Children, you've buried your father in the French
   countryside, your mother still has a smear of his blood
   on her cheek, evening is becoming more concentrated,
   as if someone boiled the water out of it, and you're knocking
   on every door, but no one answers. So many lit windows,
   but no one will help you. The trains won't stop, no matter
   how many times you cry s'il vous plait, running alongside.
   Find a barn, hold your yellow bird close, sleep. My pets,
   it's still a green world out there. If you're cold, peel the coat
   off the dead man in the pasture, surrounded by his flock
   of dead sheep. Children, when night falls again, reduced
   to its black bitters, keep a fire burning. If your mother
   wanders, hold up hay torches and call to her. Everything
   will be all right. Don't believe the circus man who chews
   on razor blades; it's just a trick. It must be hard to tell,
   when so many impossible things have been real. My little
   treasures, perhaps it's all a trick, a beautiful woman sawed
   in half. At the end, the illusionist will bring it all back:
   your father, the bird, the shepherd, the sheep. Children,
   it will be like any magic show. If you don't believe,
   raise your hand. You can walk right up and touch them.
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Article Details
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Author:Smith, Maggie
Publication:West Branch
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2008
Words:251
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