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HE CALLS, by Polly Robinson.
The temperature rises,
crows caw, ground thaws, the moon is full.
The Blood Moon of spring.
Filthy, dripping teeth.
Werewolves change form beneath
the Hunter's Moon of spring.
Eyebrows meet at the bridge of his nose,
under his tongue bristles grow.
No tail, swinging stride,
a long-held gaze to paralyse.
He strips off his clothes, his man clothes,
piles them by the roadside,
pees around them in a circle.
Satisfied, he turns, howls, bounds to the woods.
Tears the flesh from recently interred cadavers,
drinks the blood of wounded soldiers.
He's a corpse returned
from the grave
She's out all night.
Doors and locks
spring open at her approach.
a dreadful desire for human flesh,
devour their own children
and those of others.