CW: animal violence.

Your mouth is a red door           of blossoming velvet. I knock three times, your belly skinned, an open tender thing. I peel back fur; your insides flower                     wet against my touch. Dark wine, stained aprons, I cut beneath my thigh, relish the howls collapsing on your lips.                     Sing, dear beast. Beg the woods to prepare a bed, your eyes collapsing,           two white stones, slipped, sorrowed, drowned. Tonight, I’ll sleep in hooded shadows, dance in dreams of fire. There are no birds or flowers here,           just meat and scissors, a path           winding to your screams. You shake as I get closer,           the scent of snapped necks and severed hands strong on my breath.                     I roll up my sleeves,

a huntsman, a girl,           slip the knife beneath your gums. Such big teeth you had. I swallow them whole.

Author’s note:

I’ve been obsessed with the Brothers Grimm’s iteration of “Little Red Riding Hood” since I was a child, and as an adult, I’ve grown even more afraid of the wolf. To combat that fear, I’ve given Red some teeth of her own.