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‘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.