Kitsune and Tea

She faery dances into the tea room, in a spring kimono made of whimsical words, winks from an onion boy, and cackles brewing out of a girl-child. There is laughter in her obi—loving mirth that wears glasses and knows to tease her middle until she squeals night songs into midday heat.

Pour your tea properly, the world says, as we tell you. She wavers, for a second made of feathers… before sticking her head into her chest and seeing that Yatagarasu’s compass still points towards the madness of her choosing. I will pour my tea with my third tail, she tells them.

She flies out of the tea room on the back of her winged heart. In her kimono, the boy blooms a pride bouquet, the girl wishes to be just like her Kitsune, and the geeky obi falls in love anew.

a chic three-legged crow
bursts out of the heart of spring
to guide her to tea

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a wee note and stuff: Today is Rommy’s birthday. Rommy loves Japanese culture, a haibun feels appropriate. I’m linking this poem to Poetizing Japanese Folklore – Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, 2016 (Day 12)… and The Way of Tea, hosted by the birthday girl, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. I brewed inspiration from this quote: “The questions of how to begin and what to think are matters for one’s own heart to resolve. Of oneself, for oneself—you must be your own teacher.” ~ Sen No Rikyu

Kitsune – Japanese word for fox. Stories depict them as intelligent beings and as possessing magical abilities that increase with their age and wisdom (so yeah, Rommy, just like wine).

Yatagarusa – three-legged crow (a guide) found in various mythologies and arts of East Asia.

Obi – a sash for traditional Japanese dress… part of kimono outfits.

Three-Legged Crow
“A Three-Legged Dapper Crow”
via

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