Kill Or Be Killed

I invited the wolves into my house.
I will not cry.

I can remember pursing my lips
and whistling sharp into the night air,
and how they came with their ears
pulled back flat against their heads.

I’m still not sure how many
or why I wanted them here,
but I do know that the wolves are not happy.

Well-fed, yes, but not happy.

I give them the meat raw, still bleeding —
they fight each other for the thick slabs of pink;
their sharp teeth snapping, and snarling,
and tearing in.
I give them the meat raw, still bleeding —
but they miss the kill.

I will not cry.
I opened the door — these hands — my hands.
I opened the door.
Whatever happens in the night,
my breath will not reek of fear.

I am a woman and
I am more dangerous than most.
I will not cry or cry out, “Wolf!” 
It is kill or be killed,
and we both know it.

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