Mothers anticipate the bittersweet,
but when I opened my throat, she
shut my mouth. Children
are so wild. Stuffed
it with cloth. Then,
she sent it home. Branch-broken,
run wild, cry
into the night. Sometimes wolves
would answer. I slept in
a burnt-out hutch,
learning a witch’s charred
secrets. I yipped their
philosophy at the moon. Before
I spoke, they told me stories. Don’t
go into the woods, the wolves
will eat you whole.
I am the thing that haunts.