To Wapiti, My Father

By Anne Marie Wells

A colossus from the Gros Ventres – or maybe 

the Tetons – you, a giant who reigned now lies 

butchered in a metal bowl in the fridge, 

next to the hummus and leftover asparagus. 

After living years of winter ruts, 700-pound rivals, survival 

through what I cannot imagine while hiding in blankets 

watching the blizzard through the window. Your pulse 

succumbed to a bullet. And I wonder if this was the life 

you imagined, no regrets as you vanished 

into the great abyss. Was this the life 

you dreamed of? Parts of your body – and I don’t know 

which parts – raced from predators, mounted the eager, 

stood proud, ten-point crown centered upon regal head, 

now sit cold in a dog dish throne, blood – and it is dark, 

almost black – preserve your bits in its wet, your wet. 

You wait to be swallowed by a twelve-year-old mutt 

with seven missing teeth – or maybe eight – 

hot water turned your corpse into a soup 

mixed in with her store-bought kibbles.

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 Anne Marie Wells (she/her) of Hoback Junction, Wyoming is a queer poet, playwright, and storyteller navigating the world with a chronic illness.