Read: The Werewolf Epic

The addition:

And here he your hand reached, softly searching
under that crimson cloak she hid beneath.
Finding an arm, he softly drew it out,
gazing upon the white unspotted skin
he clenched between his claws. And you, helpless,
made his marionette, could not you warn,
with some sly change of face, or hidden lie—
as by some memory recounting false
deceive the wolf beneath your skin, and thus
the grandchild, knowing the real story,
who already timid, you might have spooked
and saved—the danger she was in from you?
Now all too late, within his grasp you held
your lovely daughter’s daughter. Thus she spake:

Why Grandmother, how large your hands have grown;
within the folded wrinkles hairs now hide;
the nails, more like an animal’s, harshly
tear at my skin. How could these be your hands?
I’ve known them old, but gentle still they were.
When I a babe, were these the hands that held
my nestled form, and were they as I find
them now: a vice forcing me to your bed?