Familiar
From dawn ’til dusk you paced the dusted
Floorboards, patient until nightfall, when
The spindled fingers of the forest snatched you
From the cottage. Now at last
You return, ears burred and muddy, red-tongued
Silly boy, moony-eyed and panting. Where
Have you been, wolf? And where
Do you think you are? Across this threshold
We wipe our feet, thank you, and hang our pelts
By the door. I suppose now
You won’t be wanting any supper. Meat-stained
Breath and blood on your claws, filching
Lambs in the dark, bane
Of the shepherds. As if we don’t have enough
Trouble, my darling, as if they aren’t this moment
Searching for you – torches in the trees, look,
And the nightjars panicked, rising.
Lily Levinson graduated last year, and has since begun trying to write more, and more seriously. She blogs at saintlikeface.wordpress.com and has been published recently in Open Mouse and the Patchwork Paper.