Katrina Kaye

Like a good girl dressed in red,
I invited you in with a compliment about your eyes
and a coy flirt about the size of your teeth.

I remember watching as
you grew to the size of your cage
and curled fangs against bars
as though to prove there was
so much more you could be.

I thought I had given you all
the space you needed.

You were called to the pack,
your throat thirst for red moon,
and fresh flesh. But like a good pet,
you wandered home when hunger hit.

You came to my door,
a wolf draped in ex lover’s skin,
stretching new covering over sharp chin,
holding roses in white teeth,
and selling charm with
a dripping tongue.

I changed the locks and ignored
your incessant scratching at wooden door.
All you could do was huff and puff in front of my house.

You’re forgetting:

I was raised by wolves.
I know the stench of their hide
like my own sweat,
the breath that makes neck hairs curl,
a bite in the guise of a kiss
drawing drops of blood from lower lip,
a taste for carnage on the tip of tongue.

Teeth that rattle like empty tequila bottles,
paws that scrape against wood floors,
charms that slur from snarled lips
in the form of soon forgotten promises.

Some of my best friends run with the pack,
and I’ve slipped the trails
with the biggest and the baddest.

I have bristles on the inside of my
throat vibrating against
the sound of the howl in my gut.

Don’t stumble through my door
with a snarl on your lip
and demand more than I am willing to give.
I have silver strapped around my neck
and a woodsman ax by my bed.

I know this transformation
will only last the night,
and when you return to human form,
peering through Sunday morning’s brown eyes,
you’ll scrap the beast off your tongue,
the blood from teeth,

and sleep at the foot of my bed once again.

“Wolf” is previously published in Bombfire (2023).