By Sarah Little
wolf in the clouds
i know a girl who would like to be cloud-soft. she would like to be honey-sweet, an innocuous blend of delicate fine drifty.
she is the dagger hidden deep in a skirt pocket, the poison powder packed into a ring.
(and now, she pours tea, prepares it with lemon sanctimony and honey reprimand.)
she is a weapon of something that she doesn’t need to be. sometimes, she burns herself out fighting battles that aren’t hers.
and later, she is the knife, slicing into an apple; demolishing a loaf of bread. (look at all the breadcrumbs she leaves, strewn across the bench)
later still she is the hammer beating the nail into submission and she ignores the
destruction left behind her.
letter from a lamb
i know a wolf who would be a sculptor. she is all claws and fangs,
bristling fur and raised hackles.
she makes no effort to hide these.
and she dresses like me, wears hypocrisy and righteousness like they’re
next season’s colours.
she is claws and blades wrapped all in one.
she is not a bad wolf. all her stories go thus: she means well.
every apple tree she crosses, she picks the best she can find. carves lines into it, says she’s leaving a trail of stories. her nails remain curved, scarlet, clawed.
we sit and count the stars in the sky and i listen as she plots to steal every one.
she sings to herself, nails running grooves into another bright red apple. i don’t like this song, so i plug my ears and
watch her sing.
her teeth are so sharp.
Sarah Little is a poet-storyteller. When she isn’t conjuring new tales or trying to keep pace with her to-create list she blogs, knits, and sometimes goes looking for shenanigans. Her work has appeared in Milk and Beans, Moonchild Magazines, and Riggwelter Press, among others. Her second poetry chapbook, Not Your Masterpiece, was released in January 2018. She can be found on her website and on twitter.
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