Boys become wolves faster these days, seems like.
Bags compassionately packed, my mother sends me
into the darkness. For that full-bodied moon lights
something up in warm-blooded dogs like them and us.

My mother’s former lover finds me, fearful and feverish,
tells me I haven’t a shot at this game without a pack.
We stick together, brother, don’t tuck tails for no prey.
We smell fear from afar. We see better in the dark.
We lap up twilight that leaks from the canopy’s wounds.

And when that moon shows her face again, we call
out in discordant chorus, singing vulgar praises for
no reason but to make a noise. We’re aware we’ll
never have her, which is why we hope she’s listening.

We kings seek bitches to spread our seed unto, verily.
We run these hills, boys, run from the shots in the
dark that might take our lights out, boys. We can’t
fight these animals, he says. We just prey.

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