(runk) Poem by Horatiu Stamatin

in winter
a wolf gets down the hill
comes in the tool shed
fumbles in a box
full of upside down things
finds a bayonet
sharpens it on a grinder
for long

we are in the kitchen
have dinner
nor happy nor sad
the fire roars in the stove
the tom-cat sleeps illegibly

suddenly
my mother holds up the stirring stick
from the polenta pot
and says
“listen to –
this is my old man
he fought in the war
didn’t come back home
now he’s rummaging in a shed
and is crunching old and scented irons”