Mothers anticipate the bittersweet,
but when I opened my throat, she
shut my mouth. Children
are so wild. Stuffed
it with cloth. Then,
she sent it home. Branch-broken,
run wild, cry
into the night. Sometimes wolves
would answer. I slept in
a burnt-out hutch,
learning a witch’s charred
secrets. I yipped their
philosophy at the moon. Before
I spoke, they told me stories. Don’t
go into the woods, the wolves
will eat you whole.
I am the thing that haunts.
K. S. Keeney is a senior at Salisbury University, studying Creative Writing and Film. She’s also been the editor of Amaranth literary magazine and is the current fiction editor of Scarab literary magazine. Her time is usually split between writing, watching movies, or writing about movies.