Have I Tamed My Wild?

wolf wishes and poem-shaped things

This piece was written as part of my year-long creative writing challenge. Every Monday, I use a random number generator to select a new writing prompt and share my response by the following weekend. You can learn more about the project here.

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Write a monologue or dialogue inspired by one or more of the images below.

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They say there are women who run with the wolves.

But what about those who snuggle down with them, fold themselves inside a coat of bristling fur and let the wild take them? 

What happens when they cozy up by the fire, listening to songs of gold dust and dreams?
When the wolf curls up on the rug and she rests her head on it, is it even a wolf anymore? 

What happens when we invite the wild inside?

Somewhere along the way I tamed my wild,
Shed my skin like the selkies do,
Only mine was a pelt instead of a seal skin. 
I hung it over the mantle so that I could see but not touch, pretend it was still reachable. 
No hunter had to rob me of it, I stole it from myself. 

Or maybe I just retired my wild? 
Found that I liked the comfort of a warm home and a full belly, 
That I didn’t miss the burn of survival?

Did I really lose my wild or did I just domesticate it? 

They talk about dogs that way,
That there are times you can see the wolf come out inside them.
Under pressure.
Under threat.
Under passion.
Under motherhood. 

Perhaps women are this way too, those of us who’ve found peace in what society sneers at. 
The housewife.
The homemaker.
The one who carries the weight of a new generation on her back.

I think sometimes that society hates mothers, even as we all crave that unconditional love. 

Maybe I am a wolf woman of the wild, but even wolves have a den.
It’s not all howls at the moon and pulling entrails from the bellies of the weak.
I need a place to rest as well. 

Have I tamed my wild? 
Or have I found what I’m sure the wolf would wish for:
Peace and contentment, without the struggle.

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I always hesitate to call my writing poetry. I don’t think of myself as a poet—poets are lofty, ethereal creatures. They craft their words like architects, each letter wrapped in gossamer and deliberately placed.

Sometimes though, I do find myself writing things that feel like poetry because they feel true. When I let the words come without thought, seeing where they lead. I don’t know if they’re mine or a future character’s or some voice of the collective whole. I like using imagery to spark this kind of channeled writing.

When I wrote this piece, it was just a block of words, no form or structure. I think this is part of why I always struggle with calling my words poetry. I feel like for something to be a poem, it must be poem-shaped. I have my friend Sara to thank for the formatting of this response. She took my raw words on the page, and turned them into something with structure.

Did you have a favorite line in this piece? I’d love to hear which one ♡