Wolves hunt for the moon-touched lovers,
dazzled by the dark, with stars in their eyes
that mask the gleam of hungry teeth, and claws
trailing closer,
closer.
Wolves encircle bright young bodies
dizzied in orbit, their newly burst hearts
left open; nebulous scent drifting
into a vast
(and greedy)
night.
Wolves slip between the endless shadows,
(and stardust drips from laughing jaws because
this forest never had a path to stray from—)
here, a wolf can see you run forever.
Unless…
See the gleam, the golden peeping edge?
See it beckon, a beacon, the bladed beams?
(wolves are simple, night-born hunters, weak
when cast in daylight)
Split fast from the dark in ever-glittering hours,
scatter worlds in your wake, a comet-tail trail
towards the dawn, while the wolves follow,
howling in vain at your burning,
breaking
way.
The black cold dies around you, razed in flames.
Raise high your blades in warm, brightened skies
and strike the wolves as they come wailing—
send them falling
back to night.
Ashley Van Elswyk is a queer writer whose work appears in Green Ink Poetry, From the Farther Trees, and the Hundred Word Horror: Home anthology by Ghost Orchid Press. She currently resides in Canada, and can be found on twitter @ashvanewrites.