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