It’s easy to fear the stiff-walking wolf;

how many of us live in the woods?

We’ve moved out so that nobody suffers

a bit heel or gobbled grandmother.

It’s hard to fear the ones without the maw

or the black gum lips, the incisors

and dog breath. When they smell like cloves.

The man with gold cufflinks,

the woman in Gucci,

the surgeon with cold blood and lily fingers

perpetually limned in la mancha de sangre—

the ones who nip softly and devour us unwitting

and leave not a trace or a rhyme from kill to kill.

And the survivors—who would believe us?

We keep telling metaphors and hope one day to believe

them. We’re comfortable with a wolf we can relegate

to the shrinking woods beyond civil yards

while the real prowlers, unnamed, circle us.