Wolf love

Todas las fotografias son de Laura Makabresku

Each night the wolf slips out after the brief footfalls of his lovely, elusive prey—nosing every corner, laying down silk-threads woven from a desire unveiled in an ancestral way. Silent and cunning by nature, he runs; each motion a small leap, imperceptible yet certain, along the path of endless delirium that courses through every limb of his body—fibrous, strong.

He can feel her near, her daily and indispensable presence, from loving her so much, from dreaming her so much amid so much struggle and so much epic nightmare. In his muzzle the black wolf can taste the stubborn tremor of light steps—tender as fantasies on an exquisite palate—hurried, dancing through frost-stiff herbage: the fawn’s feet.

The deer slips out, soft, between age-old fear and the sharpened blade of inevitable dusk. He deems himself safe with less light and less horizon, with fewer curious eyes and fewer scents, with fewer uncomposed sounds amid so many illusory incisors—yet so near, so real.

The raven caws by day, yet saves for the fairies’ snowy garment his sullen, arched beak at the Angelus. He waits—lord of time, patient—for the unpostponable coming of blood, streaming to the final drop, from that small, unarmed plunder that goes on unknowing through brush and leaf-litter, while its mother does not know. He will keep, surely for himself, the remnants of the putrid hunt, and then the dried skins, and then the clean bones no one wants.

Nature lies already dead—ochre leaves, dried petals—on old sheets in jars sealed with withered cork.

The wolf’s eyes behold the creature close. The tiny deer knows how his faithful archer cants his sharp ears. He looses his crossbow; the quarry springs, in a sigh, against the last light left of sunset. The fawn stands still beneath the deep star-lamps of the devout wolf. He caresses the belly of his beloved with the cool, shameless kiss of his muzzle, and she longs to be set ablaze with love from her hip to the most hidden hollow of the nest. And he slowly sinks in his tooth of longing, with all tenderness, for she receives it in a single, feminine shiver. And both of them writhe—intense, impassioned—keeping time with the one heartbeat. Frenetic, his black hide, vigorous, interlaces against those brittle legs—pale, scratched, and smooth.

What vehement ecstasy binds us when we are prey to instinct—and how time, lying in wait, unravels it thread by thread, hidden among our strongest, densest fibers, those we once, dazzled, believed eternal.

Волк любовника. (Wolf love)

El lobo y su cervatillo - foto de Laura Makabresku