My mother was a wolf.
Fiercely loyal, warm
and reliable. Present.
But always, beneath
thick fur and hugs,
were the teeth.
She snarled often.
I sat on stairs and
cried while her fangs
snapped together
on air and my heart,
wearing me away.
She bit me once,
hand against cheek,
lips pulled back to
the molars. She
left me to think.
I hated instead.
My mother was a wolf.
The other day she
dried my hair. She
stood there, clutching
the drier, hands together
as if in prayer.
She asked if I liked it.
I told her I wasn't sure.
She seemed small to me
then, dull teeth and
thinning fur. Almost
weak. As I stood there
I came to realize.
Years had softened her
mellowed her edges
lowered her voice.
But they had not healed
the puncture wounds.
The spiritual bite marks.
My mother was a wolf.
And she raised one.
In that bathroom I
thought I could bite
her back. I could be the
wolf she raised me to be.
I could be loud. I
could be sharp. I
could be everything
she had been to me.
I could stand across
the kitchen from her.
I could watch as
she trembled, awaiting
a verdict as to whether
or not a queer could
live under my roof.
I could hurt her.
My mother was a wolf.
And she raised one.
I am afraid to be what
I was shaped into.
I am afraid to bare my teeth.
For good reason,
I think.
My mother was a wolf.
I will not be.
