The curry killer killed her lover
lacing dinner with poison
What part of her was howling
feed the wolf?
How loud it must have been to fly
to another continent and purchase
bikh, aconitum ferox
to fit her ferocity.
Did she think
feed that wolf
and his new bitch younger & prettier
and not me, not me, not me?
Did she think about how conscious
he’d be, no one to save him
and his future bride, just a sister
dialing 999 too late?
Did he, in those last searing moments,
figure out how she let herself
in with the old key and regret
not changing the locks?
Did he wonder how—dizzy with betrayal,
she didn’t once think
of her own husband dying of cancer,
her children? Feed the wolf.
Did he realize how the agile fingers
that once passionately stroked his abdomen,
dusted the wolfsbane onto the curry?
How she howled from scorn feed feed feed
as she sprinkled, thinking
how he wounded her after sixteen years,
she should have known he should have known
how cornered dogs bite,
how beewolves sting.