At the bonfire pit, blonde dreadlocks,
her filmy eyes squint down
this woodland path littered
with leaves, cans, flayed branches,
soiled toilet rolls, and used needles.
Last night, the air broke
at summer’s close, the first freeze.
This morning she’s smoking
by the embers, her unleashed dog
barking hoarse in my direction.

Her Oberon’s passed out beside
a collapsed tent. I wonder now
what happened to the Muntjac deer
who last year hid in bushes here –
I see the urban foxes’ trampled dens.
She meets my eyes, the way my daughter
did at birth – a frightened bird
that’s lost her safe warm nest.
She licks her teeth, gives a low hiss.
What you looking at, bitch?

Except I wore a puffa jacket,
satin, white, and underneath
a red Topshop hoodie, Bad Girl –
though I was unbearably good
and, abruptly, so goodlooking.
Ripe to send white vans beeping –

look at my friends’ dads’ drool.

The wolf loped over, sly,
all boyish braggadocio. I knew
who he was, as he eyed me
like a stranger would.

I sat on a tree stump, smoking, affecting
nonchalance.
I barely hid delight at his disguise –

so convincing!

Slowly, he followed me
through trees. I heard him
salivate as I unlatched
grandmother’s gate.

And with my back to him,
I unzipped my satin coat,
lay on grandmother’s bed,
exposed my throat.

The next bit’s a blur of nails
and fur – he unrolled his long
red tongue,

swallowed me whole.

I laughed on the descent.

I’d stolen the woodcutter’s knife.

I lay still for a while,
let him think
he’d stopped my life –

then I sliced;
later, as I sewed,
I told him what he’d taken
would cost more than
a belly full of stones.