Mealtime, If Fortunate, Just Prior

I ran with hirsute wolves,

all of us billowy flames,

 

wind at our backs,

my onyx ring glinting

 

off spears of moonlight,

and one night the pack

 

turned on their heels:

ate me as if devouring

 

a handful of chestnuts,

not even belching up the

 

cheap pewter setting

or the stone, probably

 

hocking it at a pawn shop

for the scratch to acquire

 

another biped they could

seduce into bending over

 

on hands and feet until

habit made one more

 

four-legged beast—lest

before the dinner chime

 

you slip away on two legs

& a mind of your own,

 

leaving the ring behind

for them to shove to and fro

 

with their paws, like cats

fascinated over a ball of yarn,

 

or babes who grab

at shiny bangles.

 

Published in – QWERTY Magazine

 

 

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