was getting old & so was every full moon.
Her soles failing to keep up the
stretching, the tearing—the whole
dramatic event of an animal erupting into
itself. She stood below layers surrounded
by godly redwoods, baby blue jays dreaming
of homes, cryptic effects of lunar cycling.
Ago she noticed a starved tempo inside her
cuticles; break-dancing a cadence of unity
toward the unknown she yearned
to love & the first night changing meant always
making space for fear to follow. Overall,
guidance of witches, shamans, sorcerers,
priests—to repress & once: in a cage
to minimize dead creatures apparating
with sunrise & very quickly a deep sorrow
alienating her; she compromised meats
within her human diet, first as a joke.
boils deep across canine limbs—awaiting
painful morning: unbendable & throbbing on
Earth floor. Now on all fours, the wind
speaks—You look old. The Werewolf—And
you must be? ready to greet the rest, even
the redwoods, even the blue jays,
to seep & become them too; even the wind.
Marisela Zamora is a young writer from California. She loves Mary Oliver, watching director debut films, and eating sliced fruit.