The desire to wander the woods at dusk until lost
must arise from the will to leave this life for the dark.
The woods by the lake, where my lover took me last March,
where the pieces had lately been found of those hikers tossed.
He took me because I wanted to see where they died.
At first in disgust he refused to drive me, he cried.
(Should I speak up? My teeth, I fear, are unwashed …)
But imagine the fangs of a beast have pierced your throat,
and your blood erupts down its gullet and soaks its coat.
Each hiker there died in this way, at dusk and in frost,
their carotid rent by those jaws. Their corpse into parts
was then hewn and strewn by a helpful man—but why?
To shield his lover, her human half having crossed
into shadow, the creature fully eclipsing its host.
(… that's to say, I mumble to hide the gore on my fangs.)
But sadly you bastards gunned down that man, then you brought
me, his lover, thinking me just a woman, to question inside.
