Lair
by Al Gabor

What is this thing
that gnaws the sun?
I hear it outside the room
where my daughters sleep.

My wife
and I lie apart at night,
listening.
We never talk about it.
In the morning she checks
for tracks in the snow,
bushes uprooted,
fur caught in branches.

What is it?
Sometimes I hear it nearby.
I look for spoor among the coffee cups,
bits of bones in dark corners.

And all night
those awful teeth.
In the morning,
I wipe the steam from the mirror.
The face staring back
is wolfish and grey.

 

 

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