There’s a wolverine in my heart

who must’ve mistook it for a winter cave,

with four empty rooms containing nothing

but the bones and ashes of old lovers.

I don’t know where he came from.

I don’t know how he burrowed inside, but

I woke up one morning and there he was.

I tried smoking him out, poisoning him

with drugs and alcohol. Nothing worked.

Then I secretly began to grow fond of him,

found his surliness fetching, felt comfortable

with him sleeping inside me like watchdog,

keeping the riff raff at a healthy distance

with his ferocious snarl and saw-like teeth—

no lovers, no pain, no problem. Actually,

we’ve grown quite close these last months.

Lately he’s become extremely possessive,

protective of his space. If you should try to

pass your hand lovingly through my chest wall,

he’ll snap it off. I’ve accumulated

quite a collection of well-meaning fingers.

I can’t promise the wolverine won’t eat you.

I can’t promise you anything.