There’s a wolf in my backyard.
He watches me from the window,
his sharp eyes slicing the moon.

I told him I was thirsty.
My mouth was a desert,
my tongue, quicksand.
He was kind.
He spat into his hand
before reaching it out to me.

Water gleamed between his fingers.
He never promised me a river,
he never promised me love.
I misunderstood.

But my thirst was greater than fear.
My thirst was hunger.

It was my fault —
for being thirsty for a father,
for seeking shelter
in every possibility.

So I leaned closer.

And he smiled.
For a moment,
the world didn’t seem so sharp.
The wind blew through the branches,
and I almost believed
that what shone in his eyes
weren’t the blades that would open me,
but the memory of a good man.
Perhaps, I thought, the wolf was thirsty too...

So I leaned closer.

And the smell was warm,
of flesh and iron,
— and stories that should never be told.

I leaned closer.

And he called me beautiful,
a whisper of dry leaves,
but I waited for flowers.

I could imagine how it would feel
to hold his pinky finger,
walking through gardens,
pointing at trees —
he’d help me climb them later.

So I leaned closer.

Because his teeth didn’t seem sharp.

Because my father was a carpenter too,
and when I smelled the sawdust on the cross,
for a few seconds, I remembered home.

So I leaned closer.
And I blinked.

And he swallowed me whole.