all of them, even the boys; says they’re all yellow
eyes and gaping jaws when exposed to the unknown.
this is true: I see them howling at the moon from rooftops
until it tastes empty; I see them try to lick up the sunset
with the sharp-clawed curve of their palms. during class,
I learn to sense when breath means snapping canines will emerge
to devour the latest challenge and then hunt rabbits down
the hall until the water fountains are bled of all familiarity.
if they’re wolves, I ask, what does that make me? I ask
if I’m a wolf too or something even lonelier, nonlinear,
half-drained. no, my math teacher says, adjusting his tortoise-eyes
up the bridge of his nose, you’re the prey, the roots’ raised curve, the sun’s open-eyed longing, says it like he’s praying to be wrong,
like he’s offering to oversee my transformation from prey
to predator, from rabbit to wolf, from conquered to conqueror.
during class, I try to make my shoulders big and sharp-edged.
until it’s rough, all wide-eyed and twitchy. I press soft touch
against coarse fur and will it to become one. my math teacher
watches these efforts—raised hands, slick responses, empty
glares—and shakes his head. I can try to be a wolf all I want,
he decides sadly after class, but I won’t ever transform. even
if the moon fills again, I won’t be able to lap it up. my small
body will just grow mean. I tell him I don’t care; he frowns gently.
it’s a race for the good life, between me and him. I walk away.
my math teacher watches me in worry: he, the tortoise, free from
the wolves’ beautiful howls, and me, the hare, begging for a body
guilty only of intentional harm.
Kyla Guimaraes is a student and writer from New York City. Her work is published in or forthcoming for The Penn Review, Aster Lit, and Eunoia Review, among others, and has been recognized by the Alliance for Artists & Writers and the Young Poets Network. Kyla edits poetry for Eucalyptus Lit, and, in addition to writing, likes playing basketball and watching the sunrise.