Waiting for Wolves
Even I had heard the stories,
old widow’s whispers
within the market stalls
pouring warnings in our ears.
And though I’m waiting
for the moral to blur the edginess,
I long for the wolf’s coming,
just to feel my chest squeeze,
to hear myself pant.
How many times have I craved
his hot breath on my neck, hood down,
basket not yet emptied.
And no one needs to ask
what those big teeth are for, except me,
everyone’s daughter, too young
for the slice and run. Me,
always looking for a place to hide,
to rest, something that won’t burn
my tongue. They see me searching
for a chair by the hearth that fits,
while I itch to strip off
my pale skin, these golden fetters,
me, wanting to awaken
smothered in his fur.
Like you can do me worse,
all those teeth with the quick cut
so smooth I might forget to bleed.
I’ve done the dark, drowned in it
till anything that glistens
seems like sun.
we might run a bit, a cursory
chase till the tumble and pounce.
There’s a sweetness to it,
that it’s all nerve and bone,
no fattening to leave bitterness
behind. And though
there’s no door to save me
with one sure shove,
as my flesh sighs, so shall I-
finally chosen, no silly second.
Not left, like yesterday’s bread
And you tell yourself that
she’s learned the secret,
the piggy bank’s promise
of nows not spent, or that
her simple pleasures grow
more costly and it is only right.
And yet it’s you
who’s learned the value
of a finite set, of milk breath,
of white magic placed under a pillow,
and each time leave a little bit more,
linger at the bedside holding
the last piece.
Publicado por Heather Lazarus