It’s not as if I don’t remember

anything of our werewolf months.

The shipwrecked femur, sticky dark.
Now it’s just some scenery thawing,

and the edges have grown a little wisteria –

bruised foam, some freshwater light.
And in the decades since, I read books

with the word “innocence” in the title.

I can’t remember the last time I blushed,

felt all my arrowed blood, admitted to anything.
You were right to leave.

It takes six trillion years, after all.

The moments in which I’ve caused my life.