Ryan Mecum - Werewolf HAIKU

Let me help you pack.

If heaven sounds nice,

I’m doing you a favor.

Have fun. I’m eating.

With all this killing,

it helps to justify it

for guilt-free dining.

Please do not judge me.

It’s not my fault I’m this way,

dear haiku journal.

Dear haiku journal,

A third full moon is coming.

I need to prepare.

I wait in my house

and sit on my couch naked,

so I don’t rip clothes.

The werewolf in me

can’t care less about our stuff.

I keep losing doors.

I take down the screens

and prop a few doors open

to better my odds.

The morning after

a night of eating people

can be a bit rough.

You feel hungover

after a werewolf evening,

but with more remorse.

That guy I ate last,

I need to get out of me

and in a toilet.

When people eat corn

and spot them in their feces -

teeth are that way, too.

The full moon peeks out

above the horizon line.

Here we go again!

Is it terrible

that I am so excited,

dear haiku journal?

Dear haiku journal,

Sorry I haven’t written.

It’s been a few months.

That werewolf problem

where three days a month I kill…

it’s still going strong.

For the past eight weeks,

I have delivered the mail

like my life is fine.

Though mostly normal,

I have werewolf tendencies

that last through the month.

My new unibrow

is not as embarrassing

as my new tongue hair.

My curved fingernails

are perfect for back scratching

but bad for wiping.

All of my senses

seem about five times stronger -

which has pros and cons.

I can hear better,

even though both my ear holes

are clogged with whiskers.

Spiders have eight legs,

each of which I hear stomping

on my hardwood floors.

With heightened hearing,

current pop songs hurt my ears

more than they used to.

Nothing is blurry.

I no longer need glasses

to find my glasses.

With heightened eyesight,

Iwatch microscopic bugs

on my eyelashes.

My new swinging stride

speeds mail delivery time -

with my wider steps.

I must remember,

when I’m about to shape shift:

Wear clothes I don’t want.

I now notice scents

seeping from old couch cushions

as I watch TV.

My new sense of smell

makes for a rough addition,

with my messy house.

Constant gag reflex,

thanks to new strands of long hair

growing in my mouth.

I’ve gained new habits

that make delivering mail

more complicated.

Strangers seem surprised

when a distant car alarm

causes me to howl.

The strong urge to run

and chase after loud fire trucks

is hard to control.

I constantly push

my overgrowing chest hair

back into my shirt.

I walk down the streets

like a pied piper for dogs

who follow behind.

Frequent fantasies

involve Rose rubbing fingers

behind my earlobes.

How can werewolves die?

“Silver bullets through the heart”

seems most consistent.

Should I really dodge

only the silver bullets?

I bet lead hurts, too.

It is hard to check

the type of metal bullet

when it’s fired at you.

“Lycan” or “Wolfman” -

it comes down to preference.

I prefer “Werewolf.”

Take lycanthropy,

subtract the long teeth and hair:

Cannibalism.

Science might call it

clinical lycanthropy -

with less delusion.

Cannibalism

is a fairly glaring con,

but there are some pros.

61 That thinning bald patch

that had started to peek through

no longer exists.

My head still itches,

weeks after I’m a werewolf,

from leftover ticks.

It’s hard to eat food

when my head leans over plates

and bugs jump for it.

A werewolf headache -

my scalp is a battlefield

between ticks and lice.

With so many bugs,

I try not to scratch my scalp

or my hands get wet.

My lice look like salt

and my ticks look like pepper

falling in my lunch.

I need a hairbrush

with a much longer handle

to get to my back.

When I comb my head

I usually end up

combing my face, too.

My hairbrush is gross,

filled with knots of hair and twigs

and maybe some veins.

When I take showers,

I tend to use as much Nair

as I do shampoo.

I shave my palms now,

since work friends like to make jokes -

which can turn awkward.

The term “moonstrating”