Lycanthropy

At the end
the wolf always swallows
the moon.
 

It’s lodged,
white egg, 
a whole world
 

in his throat.
Caught apple,
stubborn lump.

 
And who’s to say 
the moon 
doesn’t often want

to be devoured?
Once you said
you couldn’t tame 

 this. Untidy animal
you either slake
or scrap. 

 I never felt 
as beautiful as when
you looked at me—    

 is the kind of thing
a moon would say.
So much depends

 
upon another’s throat,
a drinking in,
that taken light.