The werewolf seems more were than wolf.
He’s a nice guy, plausible. He’s a giver.
He gives us permission. He’s a liberator.
He frees us from guilt. He knows we’re all sinners.
He forgives us, and we know it’s alright
to forgive ourselves. He touches our hearts,
and we’re called forth to testify, holding hands
with our glassy-eyed sisters and brothers.
You’re never alone. You’re one with those
who work together, a team. Were and wolf:
twin creatures of the pack.
                                          St. Brice’s Day,
Oxenford. Infesting the streets like cockles
among the corn, we took scythes to the plague
of Danish tares. The King decreed it; his people
made it happen.
                         Clifford’s Tower, with clubs
and staves. The Jews killed Christ, were rich
and stand-offish. Our reward was release and carnival.
It doesn’t feel wrong when everyone’s doing it.
              At St. Martin’s Vintry, a Kentish ploughman
suggested the shibboleth. Jack Straw brought the axes.
The English insisted on English bread and cheese.
‘Case en brode’ was the best the Flemings could do.
They lost their heads. Wheat and chaff, sheep and goats,
us and them. Team-building via pogrom.
              But teams get results: hit sales targets,
build bridges from cardboard and paper clips;
go out on the piss and wreck the Jade Palace.
              Fifteen yeomen in ripped St. George
bellowing the National Anthem. Brings a tear
to your eye. Makes you want to tear heads off.
My work here is done.