Wolf

He took away the spoils,
devoured them, swallowed
nothing, spit out fat
to save the chewing
for the tender meat.

A man sat nearby,
cleaning his shotgun.
Wolf kept his distance.
He put out one paw,
kept the other one

to himself. The man
laid his gun aside,
moved to stroke his fur.
Wolf growled. I do not
know what a wolf thinks.

He followed the man
to the kind of house
where the ape man lived
after his childhood
off in Africa.

The man coaxed Wolf: Come
meet my wife. They turned
the corner. She met
her husband’s surprise
nonchalantly, love

pouring through her eyes.
Wolf excused himself.
He went out to drink
with the barn horses.
Then he wandered off.

His mother nursed him,
he was still that young.
Yet he wanted more
than mothers give. He
left in a hurry.

The storms make winter
a bad time for love.
The man knew his house
was no protection
for his stray male heart.

The man drank in town.
He brought a girl home.
His wife shot them both
with his own shotgun.
She cleaned up the blood.

The wolf had followed
them home. He heard screams
like his mother’s voice.
He wanted to lie
with her. She let him.

Their children, half wolf,
half human, bore fruit,
their own strange children.
They ate purple grapes,
an odd wolves diet.

Wolf let the widow
do what she wanted.
She clung to his side.
They loped together
away from children.

I know this story
says nothing new. I
heard it from the men
I worked with in town.
The four-footed ones.

(17 March 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander