Changeling

 

It was her time

and

The Pack was ready.

With a toothy grin,

a fang hanging over her lip,

she slipped into the night

to join her furry brethren —

a chorus of joyous howls

in the distance

marking the reunion.

At first,

no one noticed

the odd, odd thing — 

an extra tilt of salt into the stew,

weeds in the garden,

candy wrappers in the kitchen —

Marks of a changeling.

Then one day,

the youngest grandchild remarked

“Grandma’s little finger is missing.”

Grandma’s favorite —

they were known for their wild imagination

and were paid no mind.

The random clove of garlic,

appearing on the kitchen counter,

where Grandma had been

chopping carrots,

was also paid no heed,

swept aside into the bin.

Things got really interesting after that.

She let the grandkids watch endless TV,

cooked and ate a steak (nearly raw).

A bottle of brandy was found

in the beehives.

Vegetables,

thrown from the window.

These fennel defenestrations

finally made the family take notice

of the changes to her head —

bulging a bit bulbous,

covered in a white, papery membrane.

Subtly cloven,

it seemed a bit allied

with Allium.

There was endless discussion —

“Should we just let her go?”

“Take her to the doctor?”

“Use a peeler?”

“Roast her in a pan of vegetables?”

Early the next morning,

the youngest

weeded a corner of the vegetable patch,

simply split the cloves asunder,

and laid them under the earth,

as Grandma had taught them.

In late November,

on a clear, starry night,

green sprouts emerged, 

and

Wolf songs

were heard in the distance.