Sometimes, in the night, when the foxes are calling…
I want to run through downtown Swindon cloaked
in the cured hide of a wolf or large coyote, peering
out through the ragged eye sockets,
otherwise naked, breasts,
belly, vulva bare to the elements, running hard
on calloused fingers and feet, bleeding,
dark against dark tarmac, wearing the dirt into my flesh,
embedded with knuckles of glass.
I want to run in the night in a cloud of high-yipping foxes,
teeth tearing the legs of the men fleeing bars,
arcing my legs against the silks of the women,
spreading my mark and my rank scent.
I want to hold the hard shaft
of my great-grandfather’s bone-handled knife
And know again the tang
of sharp, brown blade against hot flesh.
Such urges I have; I can barely suppress them.
Staring up at the ceiling, sexually satisfied,
made more carnal, more hungry by the edge of satisfaction,
my husband naked, breathing beside me in bed.
Outside my open window, the screaming of foxes.
I take hold of his hand.