The sky is moon, pushes and pulls the sea
within. Eclipsed by something like desire,
she slips into her red identity,
a basket tucked beneath. She weave-walks, parts
the brambled path towards the forest’s heart,
her steps persistent like a chant. Entranced,
she harvests sweet-sour fruit under the moon’s
regard, and teeth-pierces each orb. The juice
sluices a blood-warm trail. A shameless spillage
or sharp portrayal? Either way, it lures
the wolves from layered lairs. She sees herself
reflected in their umbral eyes—a pack
of little selves. Her only way across:
disrobe in night’s cold maw, and smell each wolf.