When I was a young wolf undergoing transformation
that trickster moon, so rich with gravitational pull,
drew the buried beast out of me. Stalking the streets
with my sharpened howls seeking out the night
I set my sights on warm hearts whose keepers did not
believe in my kind or in fear. Something in their delusion
dragged at my thirst, which had no trouble finding
its way into their homes and shelters. I showed them fear.
Such were my nights for years as a fallow soul; I shed my
goatskin and terrorised. I licked their wounds with glee
until one chanced night the moon refused my skin.
The beast did not come. Confused and rejected, I ran
until I dipped headfirst into a solemn silver lake not knowing
whether I was unravelling in a spent dream or simply drowning.