Ira Sukrungruang | Poetry

Sometimes the Wolf Man Cries

“I believe a man lost in the mazes of his own
mind may imagine that he’s anything.”
The Wolf Man, 1941

I don’t know who I am. I’ve lost
my memory, found myself on the bank
of this river. I’m hungry.
There is a rabbit—white
and wonderful. Plump and pristine.
It skips around, happy.
I’m sad. Sad like a pairless
sock. Sad like an empty stomach.
I’m hungry. Why do I have big
hands? My hands, they are hairy.
My face, scuffed and scarred
like bark, hairier. I don’t like hair.
The rabbit bounces on. I hunger
for fluffy things. There is a lot
of hair over my eyes. I pluck one and cry.

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