Lupercalia

February is the month of wolves
and I lope these sorrowful trees
like a hunter on the mark of prey
long since hiding its scent in the snow.

Once we ran naked through the streets
howling to the heavens dressed in skins
proclaiming our lust from cracked lips
quenched by wine and each other’s flesh.

Now I am barren of your love.
My womb holds not life nor does my heart
hold more than a half-life,
a shadow of an eternity never to be.

So I have given myself over to the forest
to the feral whispers from the caves
the yellow eyes that watch from the darkness
so that I may forget I was once a woman.

Here I stand transformed
rank breath and matted fur
a beast on two legs
waiting for blood to spill.

poem by Amy Macabre