Wolf Comes Home
When I was a child, loose boned and dirt streaked, my mother told me that the wolves would come. When I was older, cattywampus and mooning, the first blood appeared between my legs. She said then, the wolves have arrived. Sent me out, into the winterfrosted woods with furs and a silken-sharp dagger, to meet the wolves that lived deep in me. Come back in three days, she said, giving me a shove from the welcome door. I stumbled over oak roots and scraped my knuckles on pine bark until the first day ended. I wrapped myself up and gnawed on squished berries, the pulse drumming low inside my hips. The moon hung on leaf skeletons, waiting. I waited too. The cold, the pulse, the warmth repeated. I thought, perhaps, that I would die. The dagger tempted with its shine. The cold, the pulse, the warmth. And then - bone marrow breath on my hair. A soft whine. A speckled paw. The wild curled up against my back and wagged their tail. I turned and caught a flash of eyes like the heart of springtime. A curled lip. You have fangs too, little one, they said to me. You too were built for ripping hearts and howling your victory. After three days, I reappeared at the welcome door, blood streaked and thrumming. I have met the wolves, I told my mother. They send their greetings.