A madman’s creation, she is—a hybrid
      At once, both, wolf and bitch.
            She fills the red corners of my eyes


Even when she is not there.  I feel her
      Nails grip the flesh over my clavicles
            Like rusty hooks.  My thighs are solemn


Between hers, wood gripped to stillness
      By a tender vise.  Her tongue
            Grates like sandpaper but can weave itself


Into a swirling tapestry of silk.  Nothing I can do
      Will ever be enough.  No amount of silence
            Can assuage her sonorous waves of pain.


But when she says I am yours,
      Orange butterflies alight on my eyelids.
            And the unbearable longing is over.


The dusty apologies that will never come
      Take wing for one bitter, blesséd moment,
            Then are gone.