Wolf is the critter of humanity. The one who has known loneliness and love and yet is still alone. An exile. An outlaw. And the noise in Wolf’s head is not somebody he recognises.
In her first collection of poetry, Elizabeth Morton writes of what it is to be on humanity’s outer rim writing the noise in her head. She writes as Wolf: barking consonants, mouthing a rubbish bag, in love; and is lupine in her everyday life too, running away under the broken yolk of moon, burying bones (her own).
On the rim of things Elizabeth writes with disturbing clarity of a renewed world where a matador weeps in the bullring and blackberries burst like bloodclots. These are poems that crawl into your lap and howl.