This poem is based on a Potowatomi legend of the North woods. I have borrowed from their culture in its composition. In many ways, I see this story as a metaphor for our modern culture.
Previously Published in The Weekly Avocet
The Wendigo is born
in the hunger moon
a cautionary tale of
hard times and short supplies.
Born of the time when frost
paints the ground, he sees
only shortage, seeks to seize
what he wants from others.
More than that, he is a cannibal.
He glowers across a clearing and
gives chase as you dash away.
Forget your dignity, run.
Only the bravest soul hunts Wendigo.
No chain can hold him,
his hair a static electric shock.
No fawn will gambol in his woods.
Wendigo ate his own lips
in lust for human flesh,
but he was once a man.
Remember that when
you wish for just a little more.
Previously Published in The Weekly Avocet
The Wendigo is born
in the hunger moon
a cautionary tale of
hard times and short supplies.
Born of the time when frost
paints the ground, he sees
only shortage, seeks to seize
what he wants from others.
More than that, he is a cannibal.
He glowers across a clearing and
gives chase as you dash away.
Forget your dignity, run.
Only the bravest soul hunts Wendigo.
No chain can hold him,
his hair a static electric shock.
No fawn will gambol in his woods.
Wendigo ate his own lips
in lust for human flesh,
but he was once a man.
Remember that when
you wish for just a little more.
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