I can smell her lies from here
(they will not let me closer)
he hears them too. he listens
to his knight in green, trusted tongue,
who tells a different story
I always felt he saw something real in me
what he sees is hard to know,
but the way they stare – it loosens the wolf-skin and
for a swift second of something that tastes like hope
my body almost remembers who I am but
perhaps the hunt still singing in our blood
is what keeps us wolf, binds us wolf.
if I can feel this aching wrongness and not change
then I am bound to be wolf forever
bound to this skin this form this grief
and I want to
HOWL
the desolate rage of it at the sky
the bonds are tied too tightly for that,
muzzled like an animal
–I bit her I tore her nose from her face
HUNT
what manner of monster am I? –
a hunter who could not face the kill.
she deserves that death
if I were myself I would know that
and the knight says
‘the wolf is bisclavret’
with clear eyes that cleave through illusion,
tear away cobwebs of lies.
