Little Red

Life was never the same
After the wolf showed his face.
I no longer dally
Along the path picking daisies,
Finding sheep or dogs
In the nimbus clouds,
Whistling the song of robin
Or cardinal. Seldom
Do I traverse the route alone
And never at night. He comes
In my dreams, his hot breath
On my neck, or on grandmother’s
His cackling laughter, his leer
Saying more than his lips,
His sharp teeth ready to cut holes
In my sanity. At home, sheep,
Goats, even my own border collie,
Take on some aspect of the elongated
Chin, deep-set eyes, teeth or tongue
Of that wolf. Though safe, I shudder.

Wilda Morris