The Werewolf's Desire

She knew from the start
that the wolf within
was not a thing to share. 
Though how she knew
puzzles her still. 

 

That. First. Time.

Taken by surprise

A Hunter’s moon rising.
paints her room red as blood.
And in that sanguine light
she becomes — something else. 

 

Trapped by walls 
and windows and doors. 
with latches and knobs 
her paws can’t manage. 
She paces the room, 
her low and feral growl 
unheard 
over the voices downstairs 

 

She wakes in the morning,
thinking it was dream.  
But the next time
when the red moon rises
the window’s propped open. 
And she lunges,

a long, leaping drop. 
To the ground…
To the woods…
And freedom. 

 

Years pass.

And in time she learns. 
That survival is an instinct
born of difference and close calls --
the constant thud 
of slips of the tongue. 
And silence becomes a habit
as familiar as old clothes 
worn as thin as her patience. 

 

How to explain what it’s like
when the body aches
with the need to change. 
And how she hates
to leave the wolf
dissolved in morning dew. 
Knowing what she’ll miss
in the nights to come. 

 

The surge of power,
the thrill of freedom,
and all the lies
shed with her clothes. 
She is reborn
In the mountains. 
With room to run. 

 

More years pass

and knowledge turns to anger.
With each blood red moon
she swears a dark
and growling oath, 
never to return

but to live out
her wolf’s life. 

 

She runs through the night,
hoping to outpace the dawn. 
Runs until her heart pounds
and her tongue lolls

and flecks of foam
dapple her jowls
like the last patches
of spring snow.

 

Yet morning always comes,
and the sun strands her. 
The intricate webs of scent
fade with the dew, 
and she is poorer for it.
She lives now,
only in the memory
of long nights 
and wild runs to windy summits. 

 

Then one night

her quickening senses
hear a call that echoes her own. 
And when the moon rises
full and red as blood, 
she rides the change
that twists her true shape 
from the false. 
Runs into the wild woods
and whatever waits there. 

 

No stranger to the woods
yet still there is something new.
The shape in the shadows
know what she knows.
Has lived her life.  
Knows the pain of change. 
Knows the glory of it. 

 

A pair of black wolves
run under a Hunter’s moon 
that shines red as blood.
Run until the sun rises. 
But this time, 
when it does,
the wolf remains.