the Beauty         

his beady eyes. 

the slit of blackness which stares back,

the twitching of his snout—

must be looking for flesh—

the claws wrapped between muscle, the sharpness 

of his teeth—it has pierced skin 

without question—shines 

even in hiding. 

he broods 

like a dog; after mauling 

a beloved house cat, 

after many finger-pointing and 

shoutings of bad-boy this and calling on God for help—oh 

my god he—he must know,

that he is bad.

how can anyone—how, no, why should I—love

a wolf  with a thirst 

for blood?

why am I burdened 

with the skin of a rehabilitator? 

how am I the tamer of the wild? 

I cannot, yet I must. 

I do not wish to, yet I must oblige.

 [and] the Beast

when she looks into my eyes,

the outer corners of her eyes droop 

like a pathetic attempt to mimic sadness,

perhaps pity, 

though she sees nothing but the hyde 

of an animal. 

she is only a perfect display without movement.

yet she stretches her hands,

her pale, thin, brittle fingers—

to tame me. she must know that 

she cannot tame what she does not 

understand. 

what she does not understand, is

anger; no, guilt, perhaps regret, or

no, she does not understand the 

guttural fear of being seen without 

being known. how can I be 

loved without being seen, when to be seen

means to be feared? but I hope for a day

that a pair of eyes will pierce beneath skin, and see that I am not to be repaired. 

I am what I am,

I do not wish to change.

Poetry | August 13, 2022

by Youbin Park