Howls Are Forever

In spring, sharp scents vapor from her skin… to den in his nose. He shuts his eyes, wishes for a world bursting with circular winters, for three ways to negate the moon, for wild magic that turns teeth and snout into the beak of a crow. She slides out of bed, and the fluid music that spills from her movement tells him that parts vital to their loving are melting out of her.

a daughter of snow,
the wendigo in April,
falling to pieces

He loves her still—a son of the moon howls his love to only one, and that’s forever. But love (you, ruthless beast!) comes without rules. There is no susurration pumping through the frozen red of a heart, warning that lovers should be exposed, kissed, and poked in all climates before mating. His wife creeps back to bed. He reaches for her, and his hand—freed of the moon—caresses her hipbone, plays with the flowers blooming out of the soft flesh she has left for him.

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a wee note: the wendigo is often associated with winter, ice, and extreme coldness. Werewolves are often portrayed as having a highly developed sense of smell. Partly inspired by the following Terry Pratchett quote: “…witches are quite careful about what they say. You can never be sure what the words are going to do when they’re out of earshot.”

written for Legendary Beings in Love – Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, 2016 (Day 9)
and
for When Good Wishes Go Bad, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Blossom Face, by Shelle Kennedy
Blossom”, by Shelle Kennedy

The Third Kiss

I wasn’t supposed to blog today… I have a huge report to finish for a woman in a white coat (no, not the mistress of the madhouse, but the guardian of the gut). I should be researching enzymes and the effects certain roughage have on the tummy. But can I really be expected to think of roughage, when a Hedgewitch is whispering of the riddle of the sphinx… of Shakespeare’s weird sisters… of the Lord of the Rings? I’m not weak, my Wicked Luvs, but not even I can resist a sphinx, weird sisters, and “My precious!” triple attack. So here is three-inspired dark poem bit, luring Witch O’ the Wilds:

“The Third Kiss”

It was the third kiss
that opened her brain’s eye,

the one slaying her truth
while fairy telling his lie,

out of  lips, saying, “I do love her,
but I wish, I wish, I wish she would die.”

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written for Poetry to the Third Power, at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Three of Swords, by RevolverWindsThree of Swords, by RevolverWinds
via