Calling A Wolf A Wolf Kaveh Akbar

So, I was at a friend's barbecue last weekend, you know, the usual affair. Burgers sizzling, questionable karaoke happening in the background, and a general air of slightly-too-much-sun. Anyway, my friend, let's call him Dave, he's one of those guys who's always got a story. And this one involved his dog, a ridiculously fluffy golden retriever named Barnaby.

Dave was going on, with that earnestness only a slightly tipsy dog owner can muster, about how Barnaby understands him. Like, really understands. He said Barnaby knows when he's feeling down, and will just… sit with him. No nudging, no demanding attention, just a silent, furry presence. And then Dave, bless his heart, said, "It's like he's speaking my language, you know?"

And I did know, sort of. Because lately, I've been wrestling with this feeling, this deep, undeniable knowing about certain things in life, and the struggle to articulate it. It’s like that moment when you see a wolf, and you just… call it a wolf. There’s no grand pronouncement, no elaborate explanation needed. It just is. And Kaveh Akbar’s poem, “Calling a Wolf a Wolf,” dives headfirst into that very territory, and oh boy, does it hit home.

I’d stumbled across Akbar’s work a while back, and there’s just something about the way he writes that feels… unearthed. Raw. Like he’s excavating these buried truths, not just for himself, but for all of us who are too polite, too scared, or too downright tired to dig them up on our own. And this poem, well, it’s a masterclass in that.

The title itself is the hook, right? Calling a Wolf a Wolf. It sounds so simple, so obvious. But in the poem, it’s anything but. It’s about the courage it takes to name things, especially the things that are difficult, the things that carry a weight of history, of pain, of addiction, of shame. It’s about the absolute necessity of acknowledging what’s actually there, rather than prettifying it or pretending it doesn't exist.

Akbar, as many of you might know, is incredibly open about his personal experiences with addiction and his journey towards recovery. And this poem is deeply infused with that lived reality. He’s not writing from an academic ivory tower; he’s writing from the trenches, from the heart of the struggle.

He starts, in a way that’s so disarmingly direct, by talking about prayer. And not just any prayer, but the kind that feels desperate, the kind that’s almost a bargain. You know the one. "God, if you just get me through this, I'll…" And then the list of promises that often get forgotten the moment the crisis passes. We’ve all been there, right? Or at least, I have. It’s that primal cry for help, that moment of utter vulnerability.

But the poem quickly pivots. The wolf, that powerful, primal symbol, starts to emerge. Akbar uses it as a metaphor for the persistent, undeniable force of addiction, or perhaps, more broadly, for any overwhelming, untamed aspect of the self. It’s not a gentle creature. It’s not something you can easily domesticate or ignore.

He writes about the howling of the wolf, and it’s not just an auditory description. It’s a sound that permeates, that invades. It’s the insistent whisper of a craving, the gnawing anxiety, the voice that tells you you’re not enough, or that you deserve to numb the pain. That howl is the soundtrack to a certain kind of internal war, and Akbar captures its relentless nature with such precision.

And then there’s the act of calling it. It’s not enough to just hear the wolf. The real work, the brave work, is to name it. To say, "That is a wolf." It's like looking at Barnaby and saying, "That is a dog." It seems obvious, but when the "dog" is a manifestation of your deepest struggles, that simple act of identification becomes monumental.

He explores the societal pressure to not call a wolf a wolf. We’re often encouraged to speak in euphemisms, to soften the blow, to make things sound less… wolf-like. We talk about "struggles" and "challenges" and "difficult periods." And while those can be true, they can also be a way of tiptoeing around the sheer, unadulterated ferocity of what we’re dealing with. Akbar’s poem is a rebellion against that kind of polite evasion.

There’s a line that really snagged me: "I have been trying to love myself / without naming the wolf." Isn't that it? The core of so much internal conflict. We want to heal, to grow, to accept ourselves, but we’re doing it with a blindfold on, refusing to acknowledge the very thing that’s holding us back, the very thing that’s causing us so much pain.

It’s like having a gaping wound and trying to apply a band-aid to the intact skin next to it. It’s well-intentioned, perhaps, but ultimately, utterly ineffective. The wolf, in Akbar’s poem, is the unacknowledged pain, the ingrained patterns, the addiction that has sunk its teeth deep. And you can’t love yourself around that. You have to love yourself through it, and that means naming it.

The poem is also deeply concerned with language itself. How do we find the words for these ineffable experiences? How do we bridge the gap between the internal landscape of suffering and the external reality of communication? Akbar’s own language is a testament to this struggle. It's both precise and evocative, muscular and tender. He’s building a vocabulary for the unspeakable.

He talks about the physical manifestations of the wolf’s presence. The way it can make your "tongue thick," your "mouth taste like pennies." These are sensory details that ground the abstract concept of addiction in a visceral, undeniable reality. It’s not some distant problem; it’s something that affects your very body, your very senses.

And the irony, oh, the beautiful, painful irony, is that in naming the wolf, in acknowledging its presence, you begin to disarm it. You take away some of its power to operate in the shadows, in the hidden corners of your mind. When you call it a wolf, you're not inviting it in for tea; you're stating a fact. You're establishing boundaries. You're saying, "I see you, and I am no longer going to pretend you are a poodle."

The poem doesn't offer easy answers or a miraculous cure. That's part of its power. It’s about the ongoing process of recognition, of confrontation, of learning to coexist, not in a way that pretends the wolf is friendly, but in a way that respects its power and your own resilience.

There’s a profound sense of communal experience in Akbar's work, too. Even though it's deeply personal, it resonates because so many of us have our own "wolves" lurking. Whether it's addiction, anxiety, depression, or the trauma of our past, we all carry burdens that can feel as wild and untamed as a wolf.

And the act of sharing these poems, of putting these words out into the world, is itself an act of calling a wolf a wolf. It's saying, "This is my struggle, this is my truth, and I am not ashamed." It's an invitation for others to recognize their own wolves, and perhaps, to find the courage to name them too.

I keep coming back to that feeling of Dave and Barnaby. Dave believed his dog understood him, and in a way, Barnaby did. He offered comfort, he offered presence. But the wolf in Akbar's poem is not a creature that offers cuddles. It’s a force that demands attention, that requires a different kind of understanding, acknowledgment, and active management.

The beauty of this poem, for me, lies in its unflinching honesty. It bypasses the polite niceties and goes straight for the heart of the matter. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most loving thing we can do for ourselves, and for others, is to be brutally, beautifully honest. To call a spade a spade, and in this case, to call a wolf a wolf.

It’s about moving from a state of denial or avoidance to one of active engagement. It’s about reclaiming your narrative, about refusing to be a victim of something you refuse to acknowledge. It’s about empowerment, not through ignorance, but through radical, courageous awareness.

So, the next time you find yourself wrestling with something that feels big, something that feels wild, something that feels like it's howling in the back of your mind, remember Kaveh Akbar. Remember the power of naming. Remember that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is to look that wolf in the eye and say, "I see you. And I am going to learn to live with you, not by pretending you're a sheepdog, but by acknowledging the wolf that you are." And in that naming, perhaps, you begin to find your own path towards peace, towards healing, towards a truer, more honest kind of self-love.