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  • How to Eat A Wolf

    Does all lust start and
    end like this? Don’t get me
    wrong. I loved my wolf.
    I held him tethered like
    a pussycat. I nursed
    the rumble in his belly
    with hands gentle as a burglar’s.
    He lived on milk
    and blood and ocean. He
    had violets for his furs.

    It’s just that he was
    beginning to devour me.
    He nuzzled me with claws,
    fondled me with fangs
    sharp as yearning
    He snaked a tongue so
    hungry in its kiss it
    turned my body to salt.

    How do you douse a
    dervish swirl? I asked.
    Devour it, you said.

    So I fantasised
    about eating his balls,
    rolling them in semolina
    seeds and roasting them
    golden. I got blooddrunk
    on the thought of the
    crisp tender cartilage of his ear,
    left to simmer in tequila
    and cilantro. The dry teats turned
    sweet when baked with cinnamon
    applesauce, or drizzled with chocolate.
    The tangy musk of austerely steamed eyelid.

    I set traps.

    Mine is the deepest void,
    the deepest void you’ll ever know.
    And so I lured him to a well.
    A wolf can drown in its own
    wetness. But mine swam
    and lapped and doggypaddled
    until I waded back in to get him.

    Mine is the darkest smoulder,
    the darkest smoulder you’ll ever know.
    And so I conspired to let him burn.
    A wolf can poach in its own juices.
    But mine danced on coals and leapt
    ablaze, until I pussyfooted back in to get him.

    I became desperate.
    I preached to my wolf
    about suicide, proselytized
    about reincarnation. Come back
    as a sleepy kitten, I said.
    Come back as a hibernating bear.
    Come back as a snail with a flag trail of surrender.
    But my love was indefatigable. It was
    volcano and oceanic tremor. It was a black lace bra and
    too much jazz at 3 a.m.
    My love was as big as betrayal.
    I pleaded and pleaded until

    you finally looked up and said,
    You can only kill a wolf
    you don’t want to have,

    and only then did I see that

    your love
    was exactly
    the size of two fists.


    Sharanya Mannivannan was born in India in 1985, grew up elsewhere, and now divides her time between different dimensions of home and exile. She is working on her first novel, Constellation of Scars and her book of poems, Witchcraft, will appear in 2008. She can be found at http://sharanyamanivannan.blogspot.com

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    11 Responses

    1. Lovely, great poem. Thanks.

    2. I loved “How to Eat a Wolf” when you read it at the Poetry Slam earlier this year…

      Well, you basically caught everyone’s attention when you fantasized about devouring his testicles… πŸ˜‰

      I can’t wait for Witchcraft, my dear.

    3. Personally, I regard this as a very important poem. It’s not metaphysical like much of the poetry that Sharanya produces: this one is more twisted and I like twisted poetry. It’s funny, sad and darkly sexual all at the same time.

    4. sigh…what a beauty that is. i wish i could write like that:)

    5. Very interesting.

    6. Hi Sharanya,

      Like it for it’s bold and blithe imagery. Well done. Do visit my blog http://johnpmathew.blogspot.com when you have the time.

      best wishes, as always,


    7. congrats. one of the poems of yours i like best.

    8. Beautiful and evocative. Rebecca’s echo,,,,,,,,,wish I could write like that.

    9. Thanks Outfox, Kenny, Michael, Rebecca. Sharaad, John, Bint, Bibliobibuli and Trees. Am so glad you liked the poem. Thanks for taking the time to comment, also. πŸ™‚

    10. This one I remember at the first Malaysian Slam. Good to read it here. Funny, scary and beautifully entertainment +. reads well, performs well. Cheers.

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