May 31, 2021

Fresh meat.

I had always been somewhat uncomfortable

Inside of my own skin, so it was that wolves took me in.

I slept better with the warmth of their fur around me.

I learned to hunt with the pack. When the moon was full

I joined my family, canis lupus, under the glorious light.

Even now, in the meaty hours I still run and howl.


It is a raw dawn on the morning of the poor.

"Be thankful," they are told, "Here is your daily crust."

The feathers of the wealthy have been groomed for the ball.

The day passes quickly for those who are pleasured.

Evening is a pistol and a whip; all the knives have been sharpened.

There will be fresh meat. "Where did the day go?"

Even as the poor ones scurry off, the music begins to play,

And the sound of laughter escapes the ballroom

The way a balloon escapes a child's hand.



Ren Powell

Bait the Lines

Hardcore Zen

haiku eye

The Urban Mermaid

HOOT, a monthly literary magazine on a postcard

The Slowdown

clay and branches


Summer's End

Medusa's Kitchen

The Middlewesterner

The Morning Porch/Patio

VIA NEGATIVA, purveyors of fine poetry since 2003


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