I’m already looney. Pick me.
The luna plena sneaks in from the high window.
You burrow between
my legs, howl and howl.
Some people can turn into wolves just
by wanting to become one.
I bet this happens all the time.
You’re Nicholson and then
you’re the wolf.
No one ever mentions the bite –
the ecstasy of the wounding.
At no time do I stare you in the eyes.
I bare my throat to you.
Then I disappear.
- a line from “After The Tour, or A Tirade on Shitville,” a poem by Michael Farrell.
I’ve had better-looking suitors. Better mannered. Better dressed. They know to
wipe their feet at the door, to rise when a lady leaves the room. Punctuality is
always a sore spot between us. Easily distracted, he can detect pussy a mile away.
I’ve been treated better, too. Been taken out for dinner instead of having it
dropped at my feet. Even that might be okay, but it’s rarely just the two of us.
The thing about wolves? They run in a pack. And if I manage to pull him away,
those yellowed fangs! That gamey breath! Try, just try to get him to the dentist.
Truth told, his hair’s too wiry, his nostrils perpetually flared. When I reach for him
at night, his nose is cold. He’s too hot to sleep with in the summer. In winter, he’s
lumbering and slow to rouse. But ah! The snuggled heat of his belly when the snow
falls, the nuzzle of his muzzle against my clit, the moon-shattering scream when I
About the poet: Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry 2016, Plume, Rattle, Diode, Nashville Review, Tinderbox, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. She’s the author of three poetry collections, most recently ENTER HERE (KYSO Flash Press, 2017.) A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. Alexis’ work has appeared previously in Ragazine.cc, and her short story “His Full Attention” appears elsewhere in this issue. For more about Alexis, see www.alexisrhonefancher.com.