Poem: Alison Hill's Journal - Werewolf

Maybe memory, or dream, or something so real i see and seems
like it couldn't be real, couldn't be true, couldn't be.
He shifted and growled kindness at me, whimpering dog-like so
different from the size and teeth which could at any moment bite
my skin and break me.

But I climbed on his back, rode him through the trees,
blurring by breakneck, reckless, and toppled onto moss where he
shifted back naked, all cut muscle, ridged lines and promises of sex.

He followed through, and I took him, splitting me wider than I remembered I could,
and like animals, we sweat, we howled, we plowed pulling hair and skin.