If hope had teeth would it bite?
I feel like it would.
At least,
the kind I'm interested in.
Not the eat you alive
variety mind you,
but a hope that—
scraps a little.

A hope that marks the cheek
and nips at your ankles
when you're drifting
off the beaten track;
that bears its stubby teeth
and growls as you sidle by
just to let you know
it means business.

A hope that sprints to the window
as you cautiously round
the hidden dogleg;
spitting through
yellowed net curtains:
"I'm keeping my eye on you!"

A hope that chases its tail
until you return to your senses;
springs towards you
with such vigour you stumble
into the feral verge,
bluebells and nettles
clawing at your calf—
a yielding sting that
inks upon the skin
and stays beside the heel.

By Laura Benn