She-Wolf

I could not be domesticated,
my bones remember the howl
before thought wakes and

permission learns to crawl.

I’ve let them call me too much.
Call me fire, call me chaos,
a problem without resolve.

I call it blood-memory
of women who would not kneel,
who let shadows lace their skin,
who drank moonlight
from the salt-soft lips of the sea.

When the wolf in me walks first,
I do not pull her back.
I follow barefoot, unafraid,
spine curved like a drawn bow
knowing my wild is no flaw to tame,
but the arrow that leads me home.