She remembers when dystopias had been elective.
This is proof, the court rules, that she is too old
or ‘dangerous’ – their Newspeak term for lucid –
to be allowed within the city walls.

She stands in a ploughed field. She sees tired guards
whip braceros into trucks for their return
to their cell blocks in the city with high walls.
As she watches it grows dark. The wolves come for her.

In the city yes-men fawn around the Potentate
competing for a signal from his eyes
that if he likes them he will let them live
another day. He promises they can pillage.

The wolves surround her. She looks at them and laughs,
a laugh that in town would cost her fines and prison.
The wolves laugh too, the way wolves do. They lean,
she and the wolves, together. They go hunting.