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Two Poems 

Wren Hanks

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Who might rip the stuffing out of me,

this dumb boy who wishes to be hot, this dumb boy who waits on deck for stolen endearments, one winged termite crawling down his shirt, getting smashed by his lungs pushing in and out, breathing, it doesn’t stop when the friend in front of you is beautiful, it doesn’t stop when you can’t kiss them. I have swallowed sage, I have after-shaved and look how my legs glow, like a goat milked for spider-silk I am precious, a thing to treasure. My glasses fog and this dumb boy sees the termites as portent, sees the salt only as an invitation to lick his friend’s sighing mouth.

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Grandmother, I’m Merricat looking for werewolf clues,

itching to change when the moon is right. Don’t haunt: black saddle shoes clomping behind my oxfords. Sugar in my pockets to smear across the right boy’s mouth. Don’t watch me lean in—no end to the High-Lifes and half-meant shoulder touches. Coke in the bathroom off a pink-striped key. You’ve become a bathing suit starlet. Prettier than this crowd will ever be—