Fur, hooves, antlers didn’t fool us –
we knew his scent at once,
its undertones of arrogance
and wine. Years we chased
game for him in all weather,
paws bleeding from brambles, and not one
Good boy or scratch behind the ears.
If the prey escaped, he drove
his boot into our bellies, our soft snouts.
He never even gave us names.
When we smelled his fear, the wolf
inside us triumphed. His flesh
opened like a kennel door.