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.”
“Blossom”, by Shelle Kennedy