NaPoWriMo #5: Wolves

Wolves should've snacked on someone else.
They should've identified the perfect victim,
crunched her bones, or tore off her skin.
Instead, I'm a pile of scraps by the cave,
the warm memory of meat inside them.
Even in my agony, I can admit a thrill,
to be part of the muscles that leaps fences,
that tears apart chicken bodies, swallows
brown eggs without pausing to taste them.
Or to form the ear, which hears a rifle
crack, the bullets right behind hind legs,
which impel the beast to run faster
from danger, to no longer recognize
the sound of ammo firing through icy air.
Even I can imagine being part of its voice,
discovering myself in the solo howl rising
toward others which join in, telling the dark
there will be nothing that can conquer them,
when fangs and speed propel them towards
blood.  What I can't remember is my love
who hiked these hills, wandering somewhere,
who never knew what became of my life.
She can't kiss what's become of me, we can't
make love in different shells, my consciousness
buried, soon to be burned off in attacks.
Another person who had little to live for,
a house sinking, a lover dead, a job denied,
could be devoured instead, an improvement.
She could wake up in the canine's skull, recall
she was always a hunter, a ripper of hearts.
I would be freed to race toward my beloved
who has already tromped herself through ice,
where polar bears greet strangers with hugs
that crush them with the passion of their hunger.