Confessions of a Lycanthrope

Frances Pauli

I squint at sunshine
through yellow eyes
blink them
and remember myself.

I scan the morning's headlines
for my victim's name,
curl fingers tighter
round my breakfast spoon
and remember claws.

Her soft flesh
the perfume of her hair.
Her screaming as I tasted both
as I tore and devoured
howling my triumph
to the moon.

I remember
while a family grieves
and morning sun lights rainbows
in my orange juice glass.

I remember
the twitch of my pelt
the scent, like thick wine
lifting my muzzle
as I howled my hunger
skyward.

My cereal absorbs the milk
disintegrates into mush.
The paper rattles
an accusation
sounding like the clicking
of my paws on asphalt.

Frances Pauli writes speculative fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction and Flash Fiction Online, and her animal stories have won four Leo Awards and two Coyotls. She can be found at: francespauli.com