By Saeed Jones

It’s not barking, but the sound of teeth
just shy of sinew, taut insides of my thighs.

I’m in the woods again.

Branches snip my clothes into feathers, each step farther
in my own silhouette. Or

is this the locked room of my body?

A grown man called boy
gone inside himself,

the circles of wolves blinking gold
just beyond the trees.

I am not a boy. I am not
your boy. I am not.