by Mary Christine Delea

The fur and muscle, the slow trudging through shrubs
hunting for berries, the walloping of every small creature—
it was easy to follow his strong scent, track his secluded scat,

learn his seamless schedule of dry days and noisy nights.
He shunned the civilization that sneaks sideways photos
of him shuffling primeval, and stands guard against our weapons.

He was savage and thirsty; I was dissatisfied with my monotony
of work, television, and sleep. I snuck out to the woods
and to my savior in the spring when honeysuckles dropped scent

like raindrops. At first, my strained attempts at biting his neck
only made him swat me like a fly. But I persisted, and at last
drew blood, his attention. He brought me squirrels. I introduced him

to dark chocolate and cheap wine. We ripped inhibitions to shreds,
laid bare Darwin’s science for the sapient theory it is. I licked
bugs off his back, worshipped the moon, filed my teeth on stones.

Each time he slung me over his shoulder, my need grew stronger.
Even here, I see his silhouette behind the screens surrounding my bed.
That acidic cramp in my stomach won’t leave until I am again

in his arms, safe from the world. Believe me, once this interview
is over, I will break these straps with the strength his love has given me.
Free from your small minds, I will turn savage and return

to my skulking lover, that silent beast man whose pining
makes me shake under the skin and howl. He is my moonlight shadow,
my essence deep down. Look, I quiver just speaking of him.

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Mary Christine Delea is a native Long Islander who has lived all over the country and now makes Oregon City, OR her home. She has a Ph.D. and is a former college professor. As a poet, she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, won numerous contests, and published widely, including three chapbooks and one full-length poetry collection.