Waiting Out The Wolves

You’ve decided;
You’re waiting out the wolves, in a bear’s den
while it hibernates in a bundled ball.
– Just my smoking blanket, I tossed it there
while I warm up the coffee.
I’m awake, I’m alert, no matter how stoic
I appear in my Indian-Chief-Selling-Cigars stance
(it’s the blanket, when I drape it over me,
 repelling wolves and wind outside).

Our initial actual;
I waded through the zoology
of countless creature people,
as I awaited you.
A fox, no, too cliché, but
something petite and at times
ferocious.
Controlled voraciousness.
Small bites, savoring the effects
of your appetite.

I compared your mental picture/s
that I had, to everyone coming off the plane.
Anxious for our, at our, first presence
and to see if you deceived…
While I hid my secrets from you.

The whisky at noon. But
I’ve filed my fangs of that,
upon shot glasses chipped
from being slammed down.
And
filed down my nails, those claws.
Those weapons god given, against the wolves
that I’ve slaughtered.
And my scars, if you chance
that close to look.

While I seek to trespass, over
your softest line to cross.
(How then, I am at my hardest).
I will try to temper my hunger,
but my eyes tell of ferocity;
Blue sabres, like claws, shredding
your implied dignity.
Or is it bravery, because you brought fire.
Tucked it within your breast,
between your legs, and sucked the flames in
then tongued them onto me.

I would’ve swore that I was a polar bear,
yet this den…
And maybe there is no category
for my identity. I eat all winter,
even if only one thing.
But I savor it. I make it last.

It’s the wolves that gnash.
It’s them that circle and stare.
They can’t rotate their eyes
without moving their heads.
Hunchbacks always scowling,
permanence in their pose.
Only to be trophies
upon my wall, as I scoff
about the ones already stuffed.

I sigh a smile, because
I can, at least, roll side to side.
Or be comfortable on my back.
Still able to be formidable
however room allows, here,
with you, as the storm slashes outside
and fingers under the door.

We have no worries, as
that slinking snow melts
barely a few inches
into the room.
Such tepid wetness
never earned a stir.

As a by the way, I say
that love is a red kite
during a white winter.
Soaring, safely.
Tethers us, by a heart-string.
As I pull you to me, and
thank the gods, for our being human
so incredibly.

~~~