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Wyvern Lit

Werewolf Movies

Poetry by Marco Maisto



            creature features just talk to me
            that way.

            before I go in
                        the world teeters

            and from an escarpment far off
            all autumns


            towards the aperture.

            red sun.            bruise-blue halo.

            descenders collapse into loops—
            everything swoons.

            [                                                ]

            but when I come back home, it’s dark.

                                                                                                I find you

            blindfolded in the driveway,

            resurrecting the breaker box
            with ice packs—

                                    the summertime falters;  we relax
                                    our stranglehold on each other.

                                    end-of-day seafoam green light

            is the last thing I see. I absorb.

            I can still hear howls
            from the movie that lives between us. it’s orange at the end of the summer,

            and it’s snowing.

            there’s a dark forest beneath our words,
            and running through it on all fours

            is an unreachable girl. 



            it’s the transformation scene that makes or breaks it.

                                                                                delphic penumbra yelling—

            and how
                        much am I like you
            and how
                        much I like you
            and how much [     ] looks like you    .

            I want to leave the theater

                                                            and join the city

            transform 5th Ave.
                               chase you in the park.

                (tonight, just a few miles north,
                                    20-year-olds are learning

                                    S&M along the Hudson.)

            I pass the living sculpture. or it passes me.

            and downstream

            I’m standing in the front of a hotel.

                        I find you inside

                                    you’re on the 15th floor
            you’ve sold everything we own
            “till the end of the world,”

                        you tell me.
                        till the end

            of a girl    .



            concrete echoes just talk
            to the creature
                        that way.

            before the edge
                        of my somehow-overlooked

                        brow sweat

                        or a fusion-haired   tree canopy
                        about collapses

            you walk in your sleep.  the entrances don’t

                        hold together—.

            we’re held together:

            asphalt echoes just work
            on the creature
                        in this way.

            before the towering shame
                        of overlooked

                        boy seasons

                an underground maze
                about explodes

                        you’re already prone.            about to quit me.

            the reasoning doesn’t hold together.  honey-sun. amber.

                between who we are  at this  very moment

                and what     we are     about to become

                                                            there is

                                                                        an unliquified



            Five years into this I talk to
            the werewolf.

            It’s too easy
                        to say that I am the werewolf.

            Umber skies betray me. Light betrays be. That’s the arrangement.

            Our promises twist—

            show up wuzzy
            on TV screens

            a soft regret
            whose sharp edges
            I have yet to touch
            sleeps in winter clothes
            in a house where the power’s been cut off.
            [                        here.                        ]

            When your face floats toward me
            I see summer dresses and cutoff shorts.

            You’ll play the saw
                        from the roof
                        of our building tonight.            And I’ll hear you
                                                                          on the other side of the country.

            It’s too easy to say it that way, but I do.

            And immediately I know that I will tear you to ribbons.

            I live in movie theatres
                        because you leave me out
                        of our horror story

            I lose sight of this body in the dark A/C,
            I see my own eyes.
            Because you look for me. Because I find you

                                    in the eyes

                                    of black and white girls