Loup-Garou

In France they burn his kind.
Farmers bar their doors at night,
draw shutters tight against assaults
that never come, but fire
at shadows anyway.
When he passes cattle bellow,
sheep storm against their pens,
responding to a wildness
that is not in him.
When the moon is full dreams
break their women,
wives and mothers contorting in bed,
aching for the harsh, savage breath,
the hot teeth, the wildness
that is not in him.
They say a silver bullet fired true
into his heart can end these journeys,
can still the hound bitch that howls
whenever the stars form right.
They say garlic and wolfbane strung
by an old woman and a young child
can drive him from their windows.
They say running water, a mirror,
a crucifix nailed to the door
or a cross hung from the necks
of their virgin daughters
will offer protection.
If a pentagram appears the child
is bathed in vinegar water and wrapped
in pure white sheets.
If the fever takes hold the priest is called
while the neighbors murmur prayers and old chants.
In the fields, in the forests,
on the dark country roads
the werewolf prowls,
dreaming of things he cannot know of,
responding to a wildness that is not in him.