Fangs of Loss

Grief is the wolf white,
Gray, black, who consumes
Your love, and when he’s full
He follows you room to room
Sitting deep in his haunches
With lowered eye
Crouched by the perimeter
Unseen by those standing by
Sometimes his fur is clean,
Sometimes brown, matted down his throat
Sometimes fresh blood darkens teeth
And drools from his grin as gloat
All the time he follows you
No one sees him there
Until you pretend he isn’t real
That you do not watch him stare
You share your empty laughter
Because you have found
There’s safety in numbers,
Safer to have strangers around
Than your intimate wolf.

You know if you allow him,
He will eat you bone by bone
But you cannot know if you will ever again
Stand in any room alone.