By Ann Westgarth
Your yellow eye tells me you are Wolfman,
and like the sun rising in the sky of your sclera
your amber iris glows. There is nothing else
but that eye seeing me and wondering if I am
your mouse. Your half-turned half face, framed
by the square of your nose and brow, seems shaped
from ancient times. Your mouth is meaningless
because your eye has it all, recessed in black,
hypnotic, a timeless stare that is lambent long after
the sun is down and your hunting begins.
At edges the darkness moves inward as if to swallow,
but your paleness throbs; you hold my gaze. It is beyond
fatal to look away, you cannot help yourself, soon
you will choose your moment and make the kill.