Howling

by Tyler Jagt

In the blue veined hours of the night I felt

the house shift, woke to see he was missing

from his side of the bed, I dressed in the dark.

Found the front door ajar and followed outside.

Difficult breath. Ice cloaked the pavement, ten

minutes wandering under the moon until next to

a snowbank I found him crouched over the dead

body of a fox, where he sat unhearing. Felt

       something watch

me, while watching him, who watched the

fox, who watched back. When I grabbed him

the disorientation did not resolve itself, saw

his face slip somewhere under the snow. I

thought of the signals animals flash to one

another, arched back, hackles, teeth in a

snarl, a warning. The dark grew darker. I

considered pulling his jaw open to see

what had crawled down his throat, the night

pressed into us, I cannot say how but

                   we made it home. Tucked

under covers and listened to the strange sounds

of winter, them dreamt he was crouching over

my body, lunar tones of teeth and eyes filled

with my reflection. I woke to a scraping

sound, found him on all fours next to

the bedpost, dragging his nails

across the wooden floor—