Wolves:
“‘Man is a wolf to man.’”
She says it before we eat
As father moves food to the dish from the pan
And as they feasted on hearts and tongues and other meat
She continued
“Of course, the wolf is the winner.
A wolf would bite off its own paw to survive,
A wolf would eat its own to thrive.”
Looking at me as she said it, presiding over the dinner,
From the head of the table to its feet
She would bite and chomp and chew
And there was nothing for me to do
But sit there and withstand it with bared teeth
And to play with my food,
Red and shivering and fresh
The shame of success, earned but sheathed,
Was felt with every rip of flesh
The Woods swam in our old song
Telling all of our domain
The same woods that held all of our wrongs
And our secret histories, arcane.
The Woods where my ancestors ate and fought
The Woods where the game was clever and cunning
The Woods where dignity was rendered distraught
The Woods that held the history from which I went running.
The history I have worked to keep buried
The history marked with offenses varied
The history of turning to humans from heart
The history from which I chose to depart
The history of tooth and claw
A history not worth a single straw
Yarns spun and tales sold
Based upon our lives
So many more stories untold
Because we have not let them survive
Because even we, creatures of the night
Have dignity to keep and secrets to hide
Bodies of work to keep out of sight
Work that stays between family and pride
Work done as the moon began its homeward stroll
Casting silver shadows over the bodies
Many feral, several not yet cold
One erasing the other with the utmost of ease
Supper came to a close with the brightening of the skies
I stood and began to take my last leave
As her fears dripped down from her eyes
The rest of the family stayed with her to grieve
As those fears touched down upon her thighs
And rent asunder all that she believed
And so she let a part of her walk away and die
Leaving the other parts of her relieved
I left them there, sick of folklore and fables.
The hair that had been bristling all night sunk back into my skin,
And I left the crimson spattered table
Absolved of all my sins.
“‘Man is a wolf to man.’”
She says it before we eat
As father moves food to the dish from the pan
And as they feasted on hearts and tongues and other meat
She continued
“Of course, the wolf is the winner.
A wolf would bite off its own paw to survive,
A wolf would eat its own to thrive.”
Looking at me as she said it, presiding over the dinner,
From the head of the table to its feet
She would bite and chomp and chew
And there was nothing for me to do
But sit there and withstand it with bared teeth
And to play with my food,
Red and shivering and fresh
The shame of success, earned but sheathed,
Was felt with every rip of flesh
The Woods swam in our old song
Telling all of our domain
The same woods that held all of our wrongs
And our secret histories, arcane.
The Woods where my ancestors ate and fought
The Woods where the game was clever and cunning
The Woods where dignity was rendered distraught
The Woods that held the history from which I went running.
The history I have worked to keep buried
The history marked with offenses varied
The history of turning to humans from heart
The history from which I chose to depart
The history of tooth and claw
A history not worth a single straw
Yarns spun and tales sold
Based upon our lives
So many more stories untold
Because we have not let them survive
Because even we, creatures of the night
Have dignity to keep and secrets to hide
Bodies of work to keep out of sight
Work that stays between family and pride
Work done as the moon began its homeward stroll
Casting silver shadows over the bodies
Many feral, several not yet cold
One erasing the other with the utmost of ease
Supper came to a close with the brightening of the skies
I stood and began to take my last leave
As her fears dripped down from her eyes
The rest of the family stayed with her to grieve
As those fears touched down upon her thighs
And rent asunder all that she believed
And so she let a part of her walk away and die
Leaving the other parts of her relieved
I left them there, sick of folklore and fables.
The hair that had been bristling all night sunk back into my skin,
And I left the crimson spattered table
Absolved of all my sins.
