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,
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.