And yes, I know this is one side of the story, recalled with varying amounts of distance. Science says every time we remember, we change what we remember — more imagination than recall. So you, if you haven’t given me much thought, have the clearer picture. But some stories need repeating, rehearsing. Like those tales of a sense of something watching from the trees. A shadow, a noise, a seven-foot wood ape locking gazes with a terrified day hiker, a lost hunter. Or the story from the woman who swears she saw a wolf in her backyard stand on its hind legs and turn half human as it walked away. There were no signs, no tracks. But I know what I saw, she says. I know what she means.
Joseph Radke works as a freelance writer in Appleton, Wisconsin. He has a doctorate in English. His poems have appeared in several journals including The Journal, Copper Nickel, Boulevard, Poetry East, and Natural Bridge.