Never Marry a Werewolf
We were in the car laughing,
probably at some bad pun
one of us had quipped. You
with the daylight spritzingyour blonde tresses, a smile
reminding me of our first date—
to see Star Trek: Nemesis,
to this day a favorite of mine—when you said, “I’m not a goth
because of this: see,” and grinned,
pointing at your own face.
But at this moment in the carI was trying to ignore the wolf
gnawing my liver. My wolf
had come for us, and I knew
it would make me runinto the night alone, soon.
But then we were laughing,
you full of electric crackle,
me sounding to myselflike clanging inside
an empty bucket. Part
of me cherishing this last
laugh together of a pastfull of inside jokes
and code phrases, part
mourning the wolf’s hunger,
the rending it would require.
