by Leonard Nathan (1924 – 2007)
Night, and a candle guttering on the table.
Three low stools. Father spoons
his mush, growling just a little now.
Mother intently watches her men.
Am I the only one who hears the cry? –
a scared girl stumbling on and on
through the dark and dripping woods, hungry, cold.
But yellow hair, so not our kind.
Speech beyond us still, we growl softly,
nuzzle, and – our claws retracted – stroke.
Father scrapes the bowl. Mother, rising,
sighs me far away and lost.