My Friend, The Wolf
There’s something about the way
you say missing;
a push of tongue against teeth —
the sound slips out so easily.
I think you’re someone who knows too much
about the shadowed part of the moon;
with a voice like that,
with those eyes.
At the dinner table, your drink goes untouched.
You line up all the knives.
I wonder about your hands;
they look like they were made for this:
for the jagged edges,
for the sharper points.
You probably know a lot about bleeding.
I guess most women do.
On our plates we’ve placed the hearts
of those who meant to harm us.
We must consume what tried to kill us.
We must grow strong.
Me and my friend,