The Pig’s Wife at Forty

Our brick house needs repointing. North
winds blow through cracks and furrows.
Muddy paw prints smear the window glass;
drool forms rivulets on dusty door frames.

The flower beds outside the porch are trampled
beneath all the waxing and waning. Another wolf
is huffing at the door. Romance can be a messy
enterprise. We boiled the last one in a black kettle

that hung in the fireplace. Two spring clean-ups,
you could still smell scorched wolf-fur
on the gingham curtains I had hemmed. Behind
our house are tell-tale signs an interloper is back.

We have found pieces of egg and bloody feathers
from newly hatched swans. Once, I found
a downy stem without its petal-soft head. Lately,
after I curl behind my husband’s rump, I root under

the covers for a plump red apple. I hear
jealous howling from the direction of the forest.
He keens like they all have done, wants
another taste of my tender flesh. Admittedly,

I let the wolf in while my husband was out making
our fortune. He chased me for a while, I could tell
by his mournful gold eyes it was inevitable what
would happen next. If I wanted a romp, he would

be the one—his sleek silver body, his skillful mouth.
But I am older, wiser to the ways of wolves.
I have read enough fairy tales to know, not all
end happily despite their promises. We got

dirty like he predicted. I luxuriated in a filthy froth.
But, in the end, he wanted to turn me into a silk
purse. He wanted to gobble me up. Not again. Not
by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.

Laurie Byro