They dug their spiked elbows into the wilting backs of tables.

The tablecloth dripped congealed red wine from its quiet hanging corners

And the sounds of their grunts, growls, their slurping,

Their gulping and tearing invaded the hall.

But a black swan amongst a sea of serrated cutlery, she soared just above

And wove a delicate determined ballet in between – invisible.

She walked for miles that evening, balancing platters,

Pinafore-perfect hair clipped so not to slip.

The wine warmed and the candles cried.

In the background of the lashings of laughter –

The guttural sound of wolves.

She retrieved a carcass of lamb, poured red,

And didn’t notice the bloodshot eyes slide over her:

Nor the claws stretching and puncturing leather brogues;

Scratching the wooden floor; nor their irritation at her.

One mauled a mobile phone with a clumsy paw,

The alcohol-fuelled change was taking hold.

And together they could be and become who they really were.

Wolves. Wolves in their pride. Wolves in their pack.

Their lower jaws had stretched and eyes slitted –

Some even bayed as wolves, heads flicking side to side,

Tongues slipping low, slow and deliberately from their mouths

And curling sensually to their snouts. The wolf has a permanent smile.

It grew, first half-cough, half-bark. One paw banged on the table,

Another banged and another and another and another

Until the whole hall echoed with the unified clatter

Of the guttural phlegm-flicked word that brought them together

‘Gerni gerni gerni gerni,’ they chanted.‘Ggerni ggerni ggerni,’ they chanted faster.

‘Ggerni Ggerni Ggerni Ggerni,’ faster and faster.

‘GgernigGerniggerniGgerniggerniggeriggernigger.’

She turned to her colleagues who stood by the kitchen entrance,

But their eyes! Their eyes slipped sideways away from her.

They too were wolves! Her lips parted for her voice and the room hushed itself,

But for the slipping of saliva from their jaws and the flickering candles

And the dripping of the red wine from the tablecloth.

As instructed by her manager, she, smiling politely,

Asked a wolf, ‘More coffee, sir?’

And cool as a criminal who had stopped running

And hangs on the corner of the main street

As if his heart wasn’t trying to pe

From his chest and hide in the gutter –

Cool like that – the lift stopped. And here we are.

The two of us and one magnificent silence

Broken by the chocolate New York lift voice

‘You are down in the deep, the underground

Down where the deep is down with deeper down.’

The elevator doors opened –

Like the curtains of the Apollo in Harlem.

The doors opened

Like the opening arms of a southern preacher.

The doors opened

Like the ebonised arms of the Ethiopian running through the winning tape.

The doors opened

And a congregation of light stretched out

Out into the room, the hall, the aerodrome.

Crept out and it poured out and it swept out and light-leapt out,

Over a sea of gold-toothed bandana-wrapped tattooed Nike-wearing

Caterpillar-booted hip-hop-jumping head-wrapped head-shorn

Head-locked swaying Gucci-strapped Armani jean-wearing