Tell me a story about wolves;
I know how they go, all of them,
wolf dies, wolf is cut open,
wolf is bone and wolf is blood
and wolf is villain, always villain,
and wolf is starving.

I am starving.

No. No. Wolf is starving.
Tell me this:
the wolf always loses.
There is never a story
where the wolf wins.
Tell me this.
Tell me over and over again, so I stop
eyeing your throat,
so I can twine my fingers together
instead of reaching for yours, I am hungry,
help me, I am hungry,
chain me, I am hungry.
I know how the story goes:
wolf is chained, wolf wears lamb-skin,
wolf is threat and wolf is dead—
if wolf is no threat, wolf lives on,
starving.

Tell me this.
Say:
Darling girl, put your lambskin on,
rear up on your hind legs.
Teach yourself to have a human tongue.
Forget the woods. Forget the taste
of blood on your tongue, oh!
Your bones are the spires of Stockholm
and it’s a lovely city to die in.
Close your windows, girl,
and forget the way the moon sounds,
like a metaphor, like the death of metaphors.
Be human. It’s easier.
Once upon a time there was a girl, and a wolf,
and only the girl lived.
Whatever other story there might be is lost.

Lost.

Lost.

Lost.