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)
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 Rough Music

Your fear-torch can’t burn my might,
or force me or mine to stand aside.
Soul to soul, we are all connected
by the music that warms the heart
and entices the brain to dance true,

eventually. She will see your moves
for what they are, and you’ll lose
steps… and face.

That sound? Oh, just my words
putting on their combat boots,
tapping their This Is Enough Crap
sisterly tune. To kick you with?
Of course not! We aren’t you.

Still,
when kicks morph into shoves,
words can’t speak for all the hurt
your misdeeds have played
into our boots.

You started the beat, un-dear fiend…
But once the music hits the flesh,
the dance gets rough and feeds
on stress, leaving control to be held
by none.

.
Partly inspired by one of my favorite quotes, from Terry Pratchett’s I Shall Wear Midnight:

“You set the rough music on me, didn’t ya?”

“No one controls the music, Mr. Pretty—you know that. It just turns up when people have had enough. No one knows where it starts. People look around, and catch on another’s eye, and give each other a little nod, and other people see that. Other people catch their eye and so, very slowly, the music starts and somebody picks up a spoon and bangs it on a plate, and then somebody else bangs a jug on the table and boots starts to stamp on the floor, louder and louder. It is the sound of anger, it is the sound of people who have had enough. Do you want to face the music?”

linked to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 294), Sanaa’s Prompt Nights
and Rereading My Pratchett

Music Girl Rebecca, by PlaviDemon“Music Girl Rebecca”, by PlaviDemon
via

a wee note: I already added the name of the winner of Magic Love Crow’s “Reclaiming My All” giveaway to the end of the original post. But I wanted to share it here again, just in case someone forgot to go check. Curious? *mischievous cackles* All right, I will be good… The winner is:

Laura Morrigan, of Roses and Vellum!

Congrats, Laura! Please send me your mailing information (magalyguerrero @ live . com). On behalf of Magic Love Crow (and moi), I wish to thank everyone for their heartfelt comments on the giveaway post. It was wonderful to see so many friends celebrate the art of another. ♥