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