A Poem.
Once, you starred in my almost-nightmare,
slashed by a werewolf, you cried in terror. Though I suspect it might have been your own claws,
redness dripping just to show me what you’re made of: part canis lupus, part baby; mostly, sweet lifeblood. I think
you did it to psych yourself up again, for rising to the moon’s fierce occasion,
you did it with full surprise at yourself, how necessary it was for you to stain the earth of my slumber before the moon gave up on
— you, a howling baby warmly cradled by my adoring arms, wounding and glitching between metallic infant, babbling canine. Suddenly,
there was a bright-eyed Fantastic Mr. Fox, looking up at me with hello-eyes, and so I awoke with a half-smile,
delighted that you had settled for the in-between.
