And the wolf leaned over the sleeper,
and the sleeper slept, wrapped
in his breathing. His hide became
her blanket, cushioning where
thigh met thigh and breast, breast.
The sleeper dreamed
of the prick of claws, of the prick
of a prick, and blood
rushed to her cheeks and to where
blood rushes, and she
sighed. The wolf panted, and she,
also. And the wild night
streamed light, the wolf riding it,
buoyed by a wildness
wild as his own. They were both
and singular, wolf and sleeper,
they curled into one another until
you could not tell them apart.
Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out in the world. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, Redbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat’s Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, What Rough Beast, and more.