Two poems by Anna Saunders

I am not a silent poet

The Wolf Speaks at the Tory Party Conference

We are tender to our own
and feed them our prey – pulverised
to a paste

a bloom of coruscating
scarlet, lumpen with gristle
on our lips.

We aren’t how the novels portray us
we are worse than that.

You could say we cower from those
who are our equals

preferring instead to track down
the weak the sick, the broken.

There we are half hidden
in the dark fir forest

panting, our lolling tongues
fat with want
glistening with a cocoons of saliva

Learn from us
seek out those you can overpower
break them down to that which your offspring can digest.

reduce them to a quick
then let those from your blood line
eat them from you.

..

The Benefit Minister’s Mythological Creature of Choice

Once they had rested on a lonely shore,
the travellers laid out their food
bright…

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