by Chris Corlew
When you return to your homeland you purchase a silver cane. It is a novelty you can afford from a street vendor you want to support. The sun and moon here are different—more shrouded. Here no tree is without a mist curtain. Still you take your dusk walks. At night you scan the sky from your telescope and scour the surface of the moon. One time you bump the telescope and see a woman taking a pill before bed. You—ashamed—adjust back to the glowing dusty craters.
You are an errant son. Away from family wealth for a long time. Away from the family monstrosities. The homeland has changed but you don’t mind. The building facades are cleaner. Cobblestone smoother. Markets smell like fennel and apples and searing pork. At the carnival you shoot paper ducks in a plaster forest. Your prize is a stuffed dog you plan to give to the woman.
You hear a howl like a dirge over moony thickets. So you venture into the woods. Investigate. Tiptoe through fog with your thorny walk. Grayness and the sound of snapping twigs surround you. Good thing you wore boots. When you are attacked it feels familiar but you are not sure if it is a dog or a wolf—all that matters is your training kicks in. Take the cane and beat the beast. Knight-errant you are defending yourself against the viscous wilderness. Defend your homeland.
Now you are bound by the moon’s necklace in a place of new familiarity. Even with a bite on your arm you must uphold family honor. One hand on your knife and one hand brushing away leafy branches. Knight-errant you are now the defender.
With muscle-tensing certainty you realize you must protect the woman in the telescope. Her golden hair and loosely-angled figure. Her overflowing library. The stuffed dog you won keeping you both company on the couch. You retreat to shield her from your changing forearms.
With the clarity of the bathroom mirror you realize you can’t protect the woman in the telescope. You might like imagining what she sings to herself in the mirror. You might like her chiffon dress. You might like her smile as she bites a carnival pretzel and mustard clings to the end of her lip. But you realize you cannot protect her. Not with those teeth and claws.
The woman is calling but you retreat further to the master bedroom. An ancestral space. This is your homeland. This is your heritage. You are bound up by previous generations. You look from the master balcony at flowered gardens and herded livestock and imagine a life of plenty punctuated by outbursts of brutality. You are groomed for this life. You know you possess a wealth of terror.
When the full moon comes again you bring your love into your chambers. Ignore her decorous protests. Hand her your silver cane and lie upon the silken sheets you inherited. Do not miss you instruct her. Beat swiftly and repeatedly on my head. A blurred river begins to cover her face. A coat of fur begins to cover yours. No she says before your teeth become spikes. Then her muscles tense.
Chris Corlew is a writer and musician who lives in Chicago and on twitter @thecorlew. With Bob Sykora, he co-hosts The Line Break, a podcast about poetry. With Brendan Johnson, he is one half of the musical project b and the shipwrecked sailor.