WOLF
Twilight, the tremor of stars,
the first buzz
like virus through veins,
breaks through the open window,
summons me by my secret musk-slippered name.
Ears lift, hairs bristle.
Something growls with my tongue
and tastes the tang of blood
under your skin still warm
from love-making.
My nails paw your breasts;
you moan in your sleep.
Would that the moon
were a silver bullet,
but there is no god —
only the howl of flesh slapping
against my tongue.
And I swallow.
— Arlene Ang
