In January, howling starts before
The Wolf Moon fattens, rouses appetites.
Lupa unzipped her human flesh, which masked
Her wolfishness, peeved that outsiders forced
Shape-shifters to conform when traditions
Created bonds, togetherness, and pride
In sharp teeth —carcass-shredding bold canines.
As dusk neared, she approached the meeting place.
The pack has punched through fog like ten knuckles,
Loud wolfsong paving twilight with unrest,
Aware their wilding will start come moonrise.
Lupa recalled another hunt. A beast
Resisted as she clawed its breasts, no give
In that tough hide —but sweet pink meat throughout.
Her tipsy parents, partying with friends,
Believed she’s home in bed, not cleaning up
Intestines with her tongue, obsessed, moonstruck.
As words replaced gruff growls, she glanced around
To fold the scene like laundry, pack away
Red souvenirs, simplicities —unlike
Reprieves from hunger. Sly triumph will be
The windowsill she’ll rest her elbows on.


Note: January’s full moon is often called the Wolf Moon, a name which may date back to when wolves would howl outside villages.