When the big bad wolf is shot,

finally skinned and his hide left

to bake in the sun, when the flesh

absorbs so much light the veins

are made invisible, dried and long-

dead. When the stomach is mauled,

ripped open like the sack of a newborn

pup, grandmother is already half-digested.

We haven’t finished mourning her

home, it was blown to the ground

by a tune that sounded like an anthem,

a lone howl.

Wolf was not even the first to hide

teeth when saying hello to us. Remember

when a ghost stood outside our window?

Or wrote swine across our doors, burning

straw tall enough in our yard, the heat

woke us? We are still mourning the silence,

the street, who never switched a porch light

for our grieving.