I wrote this poem in the days following the 2024 presidential election in an effort to process the uncertainty, fear, and anger I feel.

Following the 2016 election, I immersed myself in advocacy work, finding an energetic community full of hope. However, after years marked by COVID, burnout, and political unrest, it all feels so much heavier this time.

This poetic allegory is my attempt to summon the strength to face adversity, the courage to speak out, and the grace to rest when needed — both for myself and for others in need of the same.

The Wolves of the Red Woods

"Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have to dig a little to find it." — Tori Amos

I

For thirty years, I avoided these woods,
but the screams had never been this loud before.

I would not travel them alone —
there were countless others too.
Their collective energy hung like static in the square.
From far away, I heard them.
I saw them.

Our party believed we could tame the wolves,
train them to live peacefully in our town
and protect our people.

Even before we crossed the tree line,
they sensed our presence from within the woods —
We drew closer,
and they snarled.

At first, they hesitated to howl —
to make themselves known,
to make themselves heard
and call to their pack.

It worked for a time —
We gained their trust, cleared
the brush, and planted the seeds.
We fed the wolves and drank
to a gentler, greener future.

Our plans fueled us —
until the alpha came.
One
by
one
our wolves turned.
They slaughtered our people, leaving
only blood-soaked earth,
cold and barren in their wake.

I wouldn’t wait to be next.

II

For four years, I hunted these woods,
but the howls had never been this loud before.

I didn’t journey here alone —
there were once many others too.
Their compassion hummed, glowing lantern-bright.
Only, I couldn’t hear them.
I couldn’t see them.

Our party kept the wolves at bay,
stood our ground to protect our town,
but still they craved our people.

Our campfires thawed the cool night air.
The alpha sensed our presence in the woods —
He incited an attack
and we scattered.

Frantically, I called out —
to make myself known,
to make myself heard
and gather our survivors.

It worked for a time —
We camped in a clearing,
and healed our wounded as buds began to bloom.
We fed on each other’s stories
of a gentler, greener world.

Our hope sustained us —
until the sickness came.
One
by
one
my people choked.
Unable to breathe, leaving
only sick-stained masks,
limp and useless in their wake.

I didn’t wait to be next.

III

For eight years, I’ve survived in these woods,
but the air has never been this quiet before.

I hope I am not here alone —
that somehow others wander still.
Their makeshift canteens, full and heel-worn socks, dry.
Even if I can’t hear them.
I can’t see them.

The wolves overthrew my party,
desecrating the streets of my town
and devouring my people.

Distant howls echo through me, hollow and cold.
I sense their presence in the woods —
I feel them searching,
and hold my breath.

I open my mouth to scream —
to make myself known,
to make myself heard
and reach any survivors.

But it doesn’t work —
With jaw clenched and silenced,
I cling to a broken compass.
Choking on homesickness
for a gentler, greener time.

The last fall leaves conceal me —
until the wolves return.
One
by
one
their bloodied paws trod
over the remains of our camp, leaving
only clean-picked bones in their wake.

I fear what comes next.

IV

For eight years and one day, I’ve survived in these woods,
but the whispers have never been this loud before.

I know I am not here alone —
there are others too.
Freshly stamped footprints melt the newly fallen snow.
I can faintly hear them.
I can almost see them.

The wolves overtook our party,
they prowl the wreckage of what’s left of our town
and still, they hunt our scattered people.

I don’t know who is out there,
but I sense their presence within the woods —
I find signs of them
and leave signs of my own.

A hushed voice calls out —
making themself known,
making themself heard
and reaching for any survivors.

It’s still for a time —
Then another chimes from the clearing
where once roses bloomed.
My stomach churns, hungry
for a gentler, greener time.

Finding community grounds us —
even when the wolves return.
One
by
one
our people rise from their shelters, leaving
the seeds we’ve planted in our wake.

We are what comes next.