He seemed huge and hairy,
Every night he filled my doorway,
His face of fur, his fingers of nails –
He had strange powers with things,
Making them dance with spells.
He would tell tales,
In which the same things always happened,
But were different every time –
And just since good always triumphs
Did that mean it was always good?
Now the same humours are in my blood,
And every night I must go to my child,
And wait while my fur grows in
And I begin to chase my tail.
Kyle Cooper reads, writes, walks. He has recently completed a Masters in Literature and Modernity and has been scribbling for some years now. He has been published in The Cadaverine, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Brittle Star, and he reviews for Lunar Poetry.