there were the parts of the raids
that nobody talked about,
the question marks
that will only ever be silver.

she wasn’t a
warrior hunter paladin priest monk druid shaman death knight,

was an innkeeper
who’d never been farther from home
than thunder bluff.

the others,
they spit at me,
a purple in my brindle fur and
harvest moon backlit eyes and
my horns branch and splinter and

i don’t have it in me
to call them antlers.

she never told me
if it was love or


she would just say,
“that’s wartime,”

and i train because
a druid is one thing that
is many
but not two and not neither, and
someday i’ll turn Moonkin
and never turn back.