Elle était en train de ressembler á une petite fille, but it was not going well. She kept shifting between wolf and child, wolf, then child, her orbital eye shape pulling back and forth between angles. The dangerous ratio of muscle to bone. The circled path around the drain of the light.
It is true that in haunting, distinction between with child and with ghost is unclear, et en train des moments de l’espace entre les deux, she felt close to a beautiful shoulder of landscape.
Quand même, she would have preferred regularity. La vite threading skin. La petite maison settled, the moon on hill settled, the whistle white blanche of the neighborhood brush.
She flickered again. Lupin. Raked fur settled like forest inside skin. L’enfant déchiré. Tearing. The horror of animal when not of an animal. Untidy carnivore. Shearing of teeth. The messy detanglement à devenir.
The beast rose up above the table. She grew a blue tale and dove back under. She would need to find a way to escape these fixations, á offrir l’enfant à la gueule du loup.
EMILIE MENZEL is a poet, writer, finder, and curator of the gently haunted. Her work has appeared with Black Warrior Review, The Spectacle, Seventh Wave, Trestle Ties, and on the sides of Boston’s T-cars, amongst other locations, and she is the recipient of the Deborah Slosberg Memorial Award in Poetry (selected by Diana Khoi Nguyen) and Cara Parravani Memorial Award in Fiction (selected by Leigh Newman). Raised amongst the doldrums of Georgia summers, Emilie currently lives in wooded North Carolina and online @emilieideas and emiliemenzel.com.