Kneeling, she blew on the dying ember to restore its glow,
a touch of warmth to set against her skin.
It was all she had they hadn’t taken—
and still the wolves were outside wanting in.
“Who are you to want to be—anyone?” they howled.
“Who are you to want when wanting is for those like us?
We deserve because we’re of a kind and you are not our kind.
You, who are different, what gives you the right to exist?”
She had a right, a human right, a right for all humans,
a right named for the collective that was humanity.
“Be gone,” she cried, and held the ember high
exposing their serpent eyes and hypocrisy.
©May 2018, Christina Anne Hawthorne