This wolf pelt you skinned is our love.
You wear it in the garden at night, mon loup-garou.
I find you feeding on your Rousseau,
every page of your cherished Descartes.
When we were at Cambridge I let you devour my innocence,
let you convince me I needed nourishment.
Now you scratch at our bedroom, push Meditations under the door.
You’re hungry. I’m not hungry anymore.