Her eyes weren’t open when the wolf came to her.
Neither was her pillow damp with dreams.
He entered through the spaces in between
her clasped hands and the rose centre where her lips part.
See, the wolf can flatten himself into a shadow
and slip in through the letterbox. She left out milk
and Mum’s Sunday roast carcass on the kitchen counter,
the wishbone splayed out like witch’s legs
waiting to be snapped.
She hadn’t joined her friends
in their considered stumble from the path,
and cheeks painted like peaches,
frowning down at their GPS.
When she heard about the wolf’s rich tongue
she stayed out of the streetlight glare, content
with the unravelling threads of her childhood.
But now the wolf circles her nightdress
catching scents of different songs
while she watches her blurry face
reflected in his concrete eyes, realising
no, the wolf didn’t creep from a murky forest
or from a tangle of lightning struck thorns.
He was born at number twenty-four
behind flickering curtains,
amid high rise squeals that touched the moon.
Later, snout sloping downwards
he traipses back to number twenty-four,
searching the slick pavements
for the moon’s vacant reflection.
Freya Jeffries works in communications and fundraising, and writes poetry and fiction in her free time. She has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Exeter and a BA in English from the University of Southampton.
Artwork: Mary C. Carroll, Wild Tooth