Two poems by Angie Dribben

Updated: Apr 3


Where I’m from we’re taught young

the catch patterns of a man.

Bake the blood of our moons

into their supper.

It’s his tongue sets off the trap pan—

warm and wet and searching everhungry.

Yet still a woman must be clever.

Careful Canis Iatrans,

don’t turn the flame too high—

tend towards maceration.

Fennel, carrot, and leek lure the lagomorph.

A man unsnared is quick to dodge

the ambush of root aromatics.

Chary, Coyot-woman, we are bound

to the spells we cast. Two hind legs—

one coyote, one hare,

caught in my own coil spring

Here Grandmomma Tells the Story

For my family

I was eleven

Enough to howl

Tell me a story

Of night walk, the wolf I love

The snow moon not always in the sky