By Paul Ilechko
When I was a dog I was still able to move my ears I lived in the mountains where the snow was deep for nine months of the year what else do you need to know now I have bookshelves and I’ve been overawed by the light that filters through stained-glass windows it’s easier to type on a computer keyboard with fingers than it was with paws but I miss the lonely howl of the wolf on a full-moon night deep in the woods under a pile of dead branches so deeply connected to my own fearfulness eyes always open even when I slept with a faster heartbeat than you can ever imagine once I understood the language of turtles and racoons but now I read my poetry aloud sliding delicately from metaphor to epiphany.
About the Author:
Paul Ilechko is a British American poet and occasional songwriter who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, Bear Review, Atlanta Review, Permafrost, and Laurel Review. His book Fragmentation and Volta was published in 2025 by Gnashing Teeth Publishing. He reads for Marrow Magazine.