We meet them in a bar, perhaps. They smile
and we don’t count their teeth. Perhaps we should
but they seem charming, civilized and good.
And all is fine for now. But all the while
the moon is waxing. And a week goes by.
They show us wallet photos of their son.
Talk vaguely of some silly things they’ve done
when they were younger. In a clear night sky
the moon comes full. Their features stretch and melt
hair, fangs and muzzle. They writhe on the ground.
You run but hear the whining questing sound
of grim beast tracking you. They sniffed, and smelled
you earlier. Load silver in your gun
The next encounter with them won’t be fun.