Sometimes she feels the wolves behind her eyes,
The stealthy ease
Of their shadows and their breath. Everything’s dark,
Even the work
Of love. When you’ve been eaten and released,
That is the cost.
Like a statue in the thick of what’s grown wild,
She feels the old
Cry of fear along her bones. Who can
Forget what’s in
The heart? The past is always merciless,
The same red dress,
The same door swinging open. A wolf’s disguise
Reveals the ease
With which a single innocence can die.
Is the moment before what is devoured,
Or what is shared.
Sometimes the birds can settle on her hair.
She doesn’t scare.