Each year begins
when starving wolves
get bold enough
to raid cities:
Wulfmonath.
We call it January
after the god of entrances
who guards the city gate,
staff in his right hand,
keys in his left.
A hand to open
and a hand to close.
Patulcius. Clusius.
But nothing to hand
to the wolves.
One face looks back.
The other looks ahead.
Roman gold. Internet stocks.
We're eager to toss
the first coin with two heads.
We're eager to ignore
a glimpse of gray tails
matted with snow
climbing metal stairs
from the fire escape below.
First published in Turtle Island Quarterly