stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 21084
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2020-09-28 11:00:59
    [post_date_gmt] => 2020-09-28 11:00:59
    [post_content] => is empty
     of children, ripped cardboard, 
happy endings. A flesh
     rimmed cavern, sinews strung under
the heart like harp strings. Tanks
     rumble under my feet
when the wolf talks, gutter-pulsing
     in skin. I lie on my back & pretend
this hollow is a spaceship, 
     primed for a red sky. The acid 
river foams down my spine. 
     My grandmother lies 
next to me, holds a fistful 
     of crumpled tulips. Her glasses
perched on the stomach bed. 
     She knows this cage by touch; knows 
the lost girls from the woods 
     whose ghosts whisper when I sleep. 

I imagine the wolf in front of the mirror,
     scanning his fur for scratch marks. 
I imagine he’s tired of fighting. 
     Tired of being a storyline, 
clause, augury for a beast
     choking on its blood. 
How many girls sprawled on 
     a story finale, colourpop 
double spread, smiling in their 
     gas chambers. How many girls
in the bellies of machines
     that pretend to love them.
    [post_title] => The Belly of the Wolf
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => the-belly-of-the-wolf
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2020-09-28 11:28:13
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2020-09-28 11:28:13
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=21084
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2020
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry on Young Poets Network. This challenge was set and judged by Foyle Young Poet Meredith LeMaître in 2020.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 20988
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Emma Miao
            [slug] => emma-miao
            [content] => Emma is a commended Foyle Young Poet of 2019 and the third-prize winner of the Artlyst Art to Poetry challenge on Young Poets Network. She is commended in August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 20988
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Emma Miao
    [slug] => emma-miao
    [content] => Emma is a commended Foyle Young Poet of 2019 and the third-prize winner of the Artlyst Art to Poetry challenge on Young Poets Network. She is commended in August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry.
)

The Belly of the Wolf

Emma Miao

is empty
     of children, ripped cardboard, 
happy endings. A flesh
     rimmed cavern, sinews strung under
the heart like harp strings. Tanks
     rumble under my feet
when the wolf talks, gutter-pulsing
     in skin. I lie on my back & pretend
this hollow is a spaceship, 
     primed for a red sky. The acid 
river foams down my spine. 
     My grandmother lies 
next to me, holds a fistful 
     of crumpled tulips. Her glasses
perched on the stomach bed. 
     She knows this cage by touch; knows 
the lost girls from the woods 
     whose ghosts whisper when I sleep. 

I imagine the wolf in front of the mirror,
     scanning his fur for scratch marks. 
I imagine he’s tired of fighting. 
     Tired of being a storyline, 
clause, augury for a beast
     choking on its blood. 
How many girls sprawled on 
     a story finale, colourpop 
double spread, smiling in their 
     gas chambers. How many girls
in the bellies of machines
     that pretend to love them.