failed, feral at best, stuck between phases of moon, my body out of sync with time I was promised bliss with one bite, but still I lie abed in honey phlox, sleepless, joints aching to be shredded, skin to burst as March ides march on to May’s full flower moon and past. I passed for human, despite my howl, the blood curse, even growling, lacking only fur, claws, sharp teeth. Reserved in every form except of judgment for what I thought a werewolf ought to be: a wound at best. But the worst feature was my abject desire to preserve human remains. Until I met my werewolf’s ghost carrying scent fresh human flesh on spring breezes, in gradual degrees shifting my dimensions under all moons, full, dark.
Jericho Hockett‘s roots are in the farm in Kansas, and she is blooming in Topeka with Eddy and Evelynn. She earned her Ph.D. in Social Psychology at Kansas State University, but is a forever student. She is also a poet, teacher, and especially a seeker who is most whole in the green–whether in garden, field, forest, or heart. Her poems appear in Burning House Press, Snakeroot: A Midwest Resistance ‘Zine, Ichabods Speak Out: Poems in the Age of Me, Too, SageWoman, Heartland! Poetry of Love, Resistance, and Solidarity, and Touchstone, with more works always brewing.
This poem is from the Thought For Food anthology,
a poetry collection benefiting Denver Food Rescue.
You can purchase a copy of the book here.
South Broadway Ghost Society 