SLCC's Premiere Art & Literary Magazine

The Wolf and the Young Kids

Emily Jay

I vomit blood-soaked stones.

That writer--so nurturing--

I ate her children.

Such soft, somber things!

Free and fresh and fleshy.

But she fooled me: while I dreamt

She sliced my stomach

And sewed in stones.

I noticed no weight 'til waking.

Do I still want those kids?

They sound too sweet for me.

But then, my core is already ruined.

I crawl to the well

Clumsy, trembling, blood-stained--my own--

I'll never run again, I realize,

But I'm more afraid to hold still.

Hell-bound heavy--

The weighty wolf, stone-starved.

My reflection--she howls laughter,

Wolf in sheep's clothing, that prophet:

"Pound your paws with flour,

Thrash your throat with honey,

Live your lies and swallow

What purity will let you near;

But you will rest, and you will wake,

And find yourself

Still a monster. Always a monster."

My belly grates--my flesh is too yielding--

But flesh was always my weakness.

There's the vomit again.

I look down a deep, dismal well:

No source of light, but I'm thirsty

From choking back my own blood.

I lean close to drink

I fall in,

And I'm drowning. I drown.