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.

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)
for When Good Wishes Go Bad, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

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

Bloom, Bone of My Bones

Spring feeds on their love making, on her pain, on her blood… and helps her birth life into their garden. The canvas that wraps her babe’s bones is still red, malleable and fragile, with the sweat of her inner paints. Her womb feels empty, but her arms and heart brim with tomorrow’s green.

When her babe cries in the night, she grows teeth on her thorns, shoots iced-flames out of her eye, and cold-burns any threat. Her all stands between her babe and the unbalanced darkness—the dark that promises to pull, to reap, to crunch, to swallow and excrete, if she ever closes both eyes.

bloom, bone of my bones;
be petal, fall, be snowstorm
mom’s guarding your all

written for Let’s Haibun Her a Tale – Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, 2016 (Day 6)
and linked to dVerse, Open Link Night

detail from Shelle Kennedy’s “Madonna of the Flowers”detail from Shelle Kennedy’s “Madonna of the Flowers”
find Shelle on her blog, Etsy shop, and Facebook
(and tell her she needs to paint more stuff!)