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. 

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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.