"The Wolf and I” by Anna Girgenti
The wolf meets me every Sunday
under a lamp post,
midnight
we take off our shoes and
run across this
abandoned city.
He undresses me,
“animals don’t wear clothes.”
I wrap myself around his
wasteland soul.
The wolf holds a knife to my throat.
I shave his fur to kiss his scars.
Monday morning I wake
to find these
bruises spilled on my milk white skin
these bruises
swirl under a thin ice
hidden galaxy--
windows to the universe inside of me.
“Maybe”,
but no,
dreams don’t leave
marks like
these.
Last night,
the wolf picked me up in his mouth
and carried me to the highest rooftop.
I am foaming at all openings, I swear
I am
awake now
When you love a dirty thing
he eats you from the inside out, Child
he will show you
what you taste like.
The wolf meets me every Sunday
under a lamp post,
midnight
we take off our shoes and
run across this
abandoned city.
He undresses me,
“animals don’t wear clothes.”
I wrap myself around his
wasteland soul.
The wolf holds a knife to my throat.
I shave his fur to kiss his scars.
Monday morning I wake
to find these
bruises spilled on my milk white skin
these bruises
swirl under a thin ice
hidden galaxy--
windows to the universe inside of me.
“Maybe”,
but no,
dreams don’t leave
marks like
these.
Last night,
the wolf picked me up in his mouth
and carried me to the highest rooftop.
I am foaming at all openings, I swear
I am
awake now
When you love a dirty thing
he eats you from the inside out, Child
he will show you
what you taste like.