The Wolfs Postcript to Little Red Riding Hood

　　by Agha Shahid Ali

　　 First， grant me my sense of history：

　　 I did it for posterity，

　　 for kindergarten teachers

　　 and a clear moral：

　　 Little girls shouldn't wander off

　　 in search of strange flowers，

　　 and they mustn't speak to strangers.

　　 And then grant me my generous sense of plot：

　　 Couldn't I have gobbled her up

　　 right there in the jungle？

　　 Why did I ask her where her grandma lived？

　　 As if I， a forest-dweller，

　　 didn't know of the cottage

　　 under the three oak trees

　　 and the old woman lived there

　　 all alone？

　　 As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before？

　　 And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf，

　　 now my only reputation.

　　 But I was no child-molester

　　 though you'll agree she was pretty.

　　 And the huntsman：

　　 Was I sleeping while he snipped

　　 my thick black fur

　　 and filled me with garbage and stones？

　　 I ran with that weight and fell down，

　　 simply so children could laugh

　　 at the noise of the stones

　　 cutting through my belly，

　　 at the garbage spilling out

　　 with a perfect sense of timing，

　　 just when the tale

　　 should have come to an end.

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