By Yvonne Brewer
Wrapped in wolf was her style.
Creature of stripping teeth
and laying bare when snared.
Laughter wedges her ruby lipstick,
when love poems written in ink,
and not blood, sprinkled flower petals
and not thorns, are pinned to pretty
tables for two. No table for one?
Waiter. Lay me down, seat me outdoors.
Fires to light. Glass already full.
Moonlight in my hair, this is my
altar of love. Climbing ivy,
clear skies, Ursa Major and Milky Way.
Close your ears to my howls.
I'm here to prey.
Comments