I never mistook my grandmother for a wolf.
I didn’t think her quivering snout a nose or those
black-tipped claws her fingers. Nor did I imagine her
wanting a peek at my blood-colored cloak or to sniff
my basket full of cakes. My grandmother was a killer,
same as yours. I knew she’d been ambushed when I saw
the scratch on the door. I was in it for vengeance. Sometimes,
you want the wolf to speak to you. Sometimes, and remember
this when you go hunting, you want to draw your opponent’s voice
to the edge of his vicious tongue, coerce him to reveal the rage
that drives his un-innocent hunger. After all, he could have slaughtered
a boar or a brown hare. Grandmothers are deadly, not delicious.
Remember too, you little girls with daggers in your dresses,
they’ll never get your story right. They’ll ink up your successes
to a thoughtful woodsman or forgetful beast. Wolves are not un-careful,
little assassins, waiting is their finest work. You’ll be painted a kitten
in a red coat, told and retold until you’re remembered helpless.
Use it to your advantage.
Content yourself with being the one who lives.


   
Karen Finneyfrock is our Poet in Residence for January.

Previously: The Change.