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The Lycanthrope’s Dream

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The Lycanthrope’s Dream

Carlton Fisher

When we dream
we dream of the moon—
how she calls to us,
entreats us to obey her.
In the moon-speckled night of the forest
we are her children,
she our master.
We run.

You who do not know
the thrill of the kill,
the feel of the flesh breaking
between the teeth,
cannot know the release
that comes
with blood letting

the orgiastic thrill
of the consumption of life.

By day we walk among you,
uncomfortable in these hairless skins.
You see us shy away.
In this form, we are at our weakest.
In this form, you are at your most brutal.

People have made the mistake
of assuming
we are men
who become wolves by night,
when what we are are wolves
who become men by day.

Our savagery by shadow,
our kinship with the darkness,
is simply our will to survive.
But we never seem to understand
those among you
who can practice your predation by day—
the men who are men,
the monsters upon two legs.