Wolf Form

Alexander Dove Lempke


Just because the gods aren’t real
doesn’t mean demigods aren’t.
Like Leda; seized by the Swan-image,
hovered over, preened, hammered
into Helen—herself the egg she hatched;
or Danae, fucked by the Goldhood:
when she brushed off the gilt
she was Midas, with wealth of beard
above her abundant breasts; ready
to make her daughter out of gold.
That’s what happened to me
on the high hill, with the shapen stars
impending around me, howling—
rape by Dog, with the moon watching—
I grew full of fangs, my skin
ridged with upright fur,
my mind looped in the perfection
of a singular, savage thought
loping downwards—final,
a terminality—back into town,
to the place where my children
waited their unentire father:
a man of externalized purpose
who extended into them, not perfect
as the globed moon is perfect.
My muzzle went red in the nursery—
in the hall—by the open window—
flashes of self-realization—I stood
titanic, unconditionally
elected Wolf by the senate of the stars.
When the sun rose, and I had hands
again to be caked in blood,
I stood, stared down at those hideous
shapes beneath the red,
and oh I howled—howled grieving—
grieving, not for my children,
but for the Wolf that I had briefly been.




Alexander Dove Lempke is a poet and songwriter currently living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He attended Cornell College and Northern Illinois University. His music, under the name Alexander Dove, can be found on Spotify, Bandcamp, iTunes, and the like.