Every story I tell is about the wolf

I start with the hood; think of its thick wool

The way it still smells of the sheep:

that is a wolf’s favorite meal

 

Every story I tell is about the wolf

but sometimes I start with color

My mother made me a cardinal against green grass

Or maybe it was white snow

The timing doesn’t matter:

a girl is a delicacy year-round

 

Every story I tell is about the wolf

its howl, the large teeth-slash-eyes-slash-hands it has

how every time the story is told,

I am served up on a platter

or a bed of my grandmother’s entrails

 

Every story I tell is about the wolf

I should have been prepared for this

On the wall of my nursery hung a portrait of a young tightrope walker in pigtails

and I learned

entertaining people and entertaining death could be the same thing:

It is a girl’s job to do it with a smile

 

Every story I tell is about the wolf

and the mother who feeds him

It never changes:

My mother slips a red hood over my head,

pushes the basket of cake and wine into my hands,

and watches me skip down the wooded path

from the safety of our house