Don’t concentrate your finger curl at me
because I am not an obedient house pet.

I cannot be fixed, willed, or trained.

What kind of animal am I?

One that conceals herself in thick summer brush,
and observes your exaggerated movements.

A seductive beast whose silent stealth and stalk
shake the dirt beneath your weak walk.

An animal who, upon instinct,
selects the precise moment when you think you’ve made the catch,
to leap through the air 
gnash at your naked neck,
puncture your putride pride,
lick your bones clean
and bury your fingers,
so you know that I am not at all as I seem.