WOLFS BELONG TO THE MOON

Those clowns always frightened me at birthdays. With lion heads and scrawny legs and their rolling laughter. their joy was always a fake one.
I wish I were a lioness hunting in the hot hours bringing the bleeding meat to my lion husband. I wish I were a wild wolf and lived with a pack of hungry wolfs such as I, and we would hunt rabbits on top of the virgin snow. I wish I could fleck that snow with blood. My blood. With the bloods of the lions that will cry to the moon. The moon would deny them. My wolfish and bloody mouth would haul to the moon that never hear the voices of the lions, and the moon will hear my voice because the wolfs are the moon's property and the lions belong to the hot sun of midday. If I was only a hunter. My eyes would have been aglitter, my body bowed in the brown grass and my black specks merged with the scattered rubble.
Or maybe if I were a white tiger in the desert, my fur was bright on the background of perfect blue sky and I could shine.

If only you could promise me
that the wolfs do live free
I would have known where to run.