Prisoners

Mine is the dream of the caged
wolf. She has forgotten
her howl. But her legs remember 
long lopes through stiletto
woods, drawn by desire
she need not give voice to.
She is driftwood on a current of night.
Summer trails its humid perfume
and the forest yields a feast
of decay, but there is something
more—blood scent. 
Her own.

A notion of movement quickens
her gait, and the chase
becomes game. She knows
she cannot match his speed,
but he must overtake her to win
her. Respect is born of power. 
At his demand, she flags reverence.
The uninitiated would call their joining
savage—the mesh of fang
and fur, the singe of lupine thrust.
But at the tie, he lays her down
on a pillow of forest.
Begs patience.

Mine is the heart of the caged
wolf. Roused 
from nocturnal reverie, 
she paces the perimeter of sleep 
rattled bars, queries darkness 
for the source of her memories.
The waxing moon casts a pale shadow.
She turns her face to amber sky,
listens to a distant plea,
water on the wind.
Finds her song.