Rafael Wolfe
35.2249968, -111.7963278
It was promised that the place
Of safety rest
home
Would be marked by
a prickly perch
Pero aquí no hay nopales
This is no place for lobitos
An ocean floods
Tributaries rush through tread marks
Lead into the cluster of pines
Where snow melts in February
Imprints of forgotten boots
Lead towards buried fire
The circle of stones now
No more than a crescent
In a sky of damp, silent needles
Here
all the trees stand tagged
Double slash across the breast
Sliced by orange paint
That offers empty words
promises and protections
the path winds on
the desecrated grave
a six foot tall stump
encircled by tagged trees
crushed, charred aluminum
little wolf
isn’t grey like the others
doesn’t come from these forests
but they say even down south
the cacti bend and die
and the eagles don’t land anymore
aquí en este mundo
no hay nopales
no hay hogar para los lobitos
BIO
Rafael Wolfe is the pseudonym for a young Mexican-American writer who holds a bachelor’s in Criminology and Criminal Justice and is seeking his MFA in Creative Writing at Northern Arizona University. Though his work explores many genres and forms, he is most interested in how the human experience transcends time and place.