‘bisclavret’
and then corrects himself, catches himself,
as though he never said it at all.
he tries to avoid it
–I wish he wouldn’t –
his shame stealing words from his lips.
I am more me when he says my name
like he gives me back the pieces of myself
his gaze that shears through men
sees only the wolf, a partial truth.
I am the worst of me
still he keeps me by him in my monstrosity
how can it be that I am allowed this
I am only wolf
he speaks of his people, a king’s love
in every word. his fear, his inadequacy, the failure
of giving them everything that he is.
I would tell him otherwise
if I had the tongue or the teeth for words
instead I only listen
‘if they invade we are lost we cannot fight their armies’
he says and
‘I am arming these men for their graves’
and
‘I will be remembered as a hero when I should be named a failure’
‘better to surrender and hope for mercy than be slaughtered where we stand’
‘I am a fool to have agreed to this’
he is no fool to me –
but a wolf’s heart will always want to fight,
always want to stand teeth bared on the margins of the kingdom.
