if I could wait for weeks for the slightest change in you, then each day hurt you in a dozen different ways, bite heart-shaped chunks of flesh from your thighs to test if you flinch or if you could be trusted to endure, if I could rub my scent along your shins to make you mine, if a mistake could be followed by instant retribution and end with you rolling over to expose the stubble and grace of your throat, if it could be forgotten
the moment the wind changed, if my eyes could sharpen to yellow, if we journeyed each night for miles, taking it in turns to lead, if we could know by smell what we are born to, if before we met
we sent our lonely howls across the estuary where in the fading light wader birds stiffen and take to the air, then we could agree a role for each of us, more complicated than alpha, more simple than marriage.
If we could speak like Wolves by Kim Moore
