Renee Emerson

Self Portrait as Bigfoot


They fill my print with cement,
save scraps of my hair in bags.
They imagine we are close,
even related.

I see no resemblance—
when have they woken
with dew in their fur
like live stars?

When have they held
a wolf cub close
to their heart to feel
the growl, and return it?

I think they envy me.
They always draw me walking
alone, the way they walk,

but they don’t know me at all.
If they really knew me, they’d shoot me,
stuff me, hang me on their wall.