by Marcie Lynn Tentchoff
She didn't meet with you last night,
down there where the traffic crawls,
and music from the nightclubs pounds
its way through doors and walls,
and sneaks around the bouncers
to lure dancers in.
She didn't meet with you, or message you,
or tell you where she might be found,
and though she left you with a kiss
you know somehow she won't be bound
to the phone number that she gave:
it isn't hers.
"Wolf girls," she breathed, her mouth and body
warm on yours, "the instinct's strong.
We're made to mate for life. It isn't safe
for us to care too much, or stay too long.
One night, two nights, and we'll stay free --
but never more."
You knew she'd leave you. She made that
and her love of freedom all too plain.
And yet you haunt her favorite spots,
search faces in the crowd for signs of pain
or loss in golden eyes, and always
listen for the cries of wolf girls singing,
keening to the waning moon.