This madness.
This wolf that won’t let go
won’t absolve me or allow me to forgive —
If I could shoot it in the heart, I would.
No. That would be suicide.
It loves me; it does.
Its teeth that shine, its teeth that lick.
A purpling wound, a twilight.
Deep velvet pleasure. And then
the shame. I’m no crazier than our shattered
precious world. Its light that explodes
leaving darkness behind.
I tried, you know. Tried turning away from its raw
hot breath. Tried locking the windows.
Folded and creased a hundred origami doves.
For an hour, maybe two, safety visited me.
Hah. Looked in the mirror and there —
my skin peeling away, the wolf crawling out.
G.L. Connors is the author of several poetry collections, including Toward the Hanging Tree: Poems of Salem Village. Connors has also edited poetry anthologies, including the recently published Forgotten Women: A Tribute in Poetry. The editor of Connecticut River Review, she also runs a small poetry press, Grayson Books.
OCTOBER 31, 2018 / MUSEPAPER POEM PRIZE #11 / FEAR