but it’s a freedom, too, from the temporary,
from the loss of change,
and when there’s nothing left to be mourned
maybe there’s a peace in that.
maybe there’s a surrender.
but it hurts
it tastes like betrayal
my clothes stolen my life stolen my wife stolen
I was made wolf by them on purpose
abandoned to live feral in the forest like I’m nothing
but I loved her
love is another human lie and close kin
to hate, easily sharpened to a ruinous edge.
I see her sometimes on the edge of the forest
she looks afraid as if she knows I’m watching
guilt makes prey of a hunter, makes haunted a ruin
–I would be the ghost that trails her–
it steals her softness, gives edges to her beauty
until like rock the cruelty becomes apparent.
I wonder what she told the king
whether he knows that I am wolf
how can I know when he hunts so rarely
but if he thought I was wolf he would he would he would–
what would he do, Bisclavret?
(see I still have my name)
(this is how I know I am more than this)
can the king move mountains?
upturn the natural order?
remake worlds in a kinder image?
more likely a quick death,
