As the long harvest slips into the season of want
Will you bare your throat for the wolf
howling in the cold beyond your door?
Will you allow your blood to warm her,
allow your flesh to nourish her?
Will you lie quiet…
as she takes you into her body,
every atom of you becoming
a part of her?
How long will it take
for her to break your ribs,
to chew the muscle in your breast?
How long will it take
for her teeth to crack your skull,
pierce your pearly brain with fierce intention?
How long will it take
for her to break you into your purest pieces,
to lay your bones bare,
then crack them open to partake
of the red marrow?
The fat of you will line her lean ribs
warm her in the depths of winter.
The energy of you will fill her limbs,
and she will run, hunt, and brawl.
And when spring thaws the rivers,
She will whelp a litter of pups,
each one containing
a piece of you.
Ancient tradition holds
that when you consume a beast
you take in its power, its essence.
What will she gain from you?
Her head will not fill with your songs
and ancient stories whispered in the dark.
Those will be lost,
as will the knowledge, the formulas,
the recipes.
Perhaps she will gain nothing more…
Than your slight precognizance,
your eldritch dreams of the stars,
and a faint stirring
at the smell of mint.
As the long harvest draws to a close
and the lean months steal in with
bitter breath,
when the sun turns from its child,
when the wind bites,
and the rivers fall silent with ice…
will you bare your throat to the wolf?
Fathom 