The sky is wet
as if his blood rang true.
Doors slam, bed posts split;
he does not pull back
my liking for the wilder
��������side---
��������I am the wolf!

Christ, I will fuck him
until his neck snaps,
releasing
his dark dirty hair
from my hands, my godhead,
��������redemption,
��������my one night stand.

I write of such things,
because my blood is European.
I do not fret bystanders
in awe, or pouty women
��������shying behind beatnik
��������smiles or hidden lace.

I am far more experienced,
my eyes tell stories-
��������blossomed, like scarlet,
��������fashioned in white.

He is my lover, I will mold him,
twenty times over.

And sometimes I peek through
his window
and watch myself grow
��������in both admiration
��������and bloody hand.



�2006 by Cherilyn Ferroggiaro
previously published in Spent Meat