by Emma Buckley
Content warning: Gore and violence.
The girl-child unzips her skin at the wrists
and wears her wolfishness
like a wolfish party dress,
introduces the latest boy to all her party friends:
the dark clouds driving like frat boys over the speed limit,
colliding with the front-teeth-after-a-fistfight horizon
like frat boys into lamp-posts,
the sidewalk still hot as sunburnt skin.
The empty side-streets are hot-spot for boy-eating,
her post-TV late-night hobby,
cleaning up his guts with her tongue.
The dark trees gathering in clots, the moon hanging
like a cum-drop, or her mother’s stolen pearls.
And the girl is chewing flesh like toffee,
rending arteries and bone marrow out back of the mall.
The shy boy from homeroom clamped within her protruding wolf-jaw.
She plucks his vocal chords like violin strings, makes the teenage body sing.
Her homemade playlist of 1980s house party hits thumps in her Walkman,
sound-tracking her hitchhike to the hilltop make-out spot
where all the kids go to smoke cigarettes and fuck
beneath the big satellite and above the spot that used to be a record shop,
till it burned down and was reborn as a laundromat.
The sheets never come out clean.
The wolf-girl is content that she prayed so hard for sharp teeth,
as the washing machines spin like the records used to do,
and the streetlights buzz like door-to-door salesman or houseflies.
And the wolf-girl, the suburbanite,
unpeels the captain of the football team
like his newly stubbled boy face is a tangerine,
wears his letterman jacket like a garter-belt
between a bridegroom’s teeth.
She howls at the moon till the dawn creeps up like a classroom hard-on,
stalks along to the parking lot out back of the closest fast-food restaurant
to retrieve her girl-skin,
the line between early-night and early-morning so thin,
it cuts the horizon like a pulled hangnail.
In the daylight, in the girl’s bathroom,
the girl-child pukes up the whole mess of herself.
In the twilight, like a dogfight, the wolf-girl eats everyone else.