When you met her she would be quiet,
demure, but inquiring. Her voice soft and lilting
she would want to know all about you.
As you walked she would link her arm
in yours and a feeling of disquiet would
come over you at the trailing wolf but
for some reason you cannot understand
you ask no question regarding it.
A free spirited women, with sad eyes,
but still a slave to the patriarchal times
with her floor length dress and corseted
waist, she would invite you into her parlor.
As the wolf curls up by the fire she would
offer you wine. Drinking to excess, she leads
you laughing to her bed and upon
removing the long dress revealing
pearl white skin, you spend hours of
uninterrupted passion, the wolf howling
and pawing at the door as you collapse
breathless. In the pre dawn hour you
stagger home and in a dark laneway
the wolf attacks, tearing out your throat.
And sitting in her parlor, holding in her hand
a glass of the deepest red wine,
she knows the exact moment of your
demise. Her light and airy laughter
can be heard upon the wind
as she takes another sip of wine.