The Fortune Teller to the Woodsman

Gaunt and salt-and-pepper as the birches, wolves
are starving in these woods. From here the moon
is a crystal ball. I don’t need to look inside

to tell you that if you walk into the trees,
you won’t come out. The twigs will just stop

breaking under your boots. The moon backs off,

the later it gets. You could learn a thing or two
from her. Soon she’ll be far away, and the tiny
pictures inside will be buzzing lights, like fireflies

in a jar. But I can still swirl my hands around her
and see you in a shock of clover, your bones

gnawed to talc, your wife’s shriek filling the forest

so completely, the wolves lap the air for a taste.
Go home and watch the stars bare their small,
shiny teeth. Tonight I’ve spared you,

but you can’t be spared forever. If the moon says
you’ll be picked clean, believe her. You’ll feed

whatever hunts you the heart hot from your body.