The Wolf: Part One
I remember your hands.
Your hands were worked to the bone
but somehow soft as fur
on my skin,
misleading.
A wolf.
A wolf in sheep's clothing;
I wore my red cloak well.
You gnashed your teeth
and I smiled
a trusting smile.
Wolves usually don't apologize
for eating their prey,
but you did.
My chewed flesh did not respond
like I thought it would.
Run back to the thicket, wolf
Run back to your lair;
I am simply grateful you never fully digested me.
