I remember this man he was kind to me
stories of the wolf have spread.
rumours are as swift as prayers.
he stops to speak to the king and—
‘bisclavret’
– my name
he says my name this priest he says my name
I hear it as clear as if I were human –
these men of god and remembrance
can summon phantoms with their words.
why does he say my name
perhaps he speaks of loss. the king’s answer
is a whisper, faint and non-committal,
like the beast to his skin.
he shakes his head. says
‘the mind of a man’
quoting, it seems, his knight.
the words hang uneasily in the air.
this priest he must know I’m no thing of nature
only a monstrous aberration
and he
he must see the devil’s work in me
and yet he steps away
a burning star – another candle, sheltered
from the draughts of the chapel – a clasped shoulder,
a murmured prayer, and then the priest
is gone and the king resumes his vigil,
and the wolf resumes his waiting.
I cannot go home
I can never go home
