wolf-howl storm-rage

something strange and powerful has entered the room it came quietly a sway in the curtain that could have been the wind the gathering story the gathering storm riding the crest between summer and the fear of a fall

i can feel it clinging to the shadows harvesting the thread of the spiders, silk-soft and frightening and leaving their bodies trembling in a home half-made my skin is shivering to the pulse of it drawing heat to my core anticipation of the fire that will undo me consume me

the candle on the table snuffs out and smoke rises from the wick-glow to the ceiling where it curls, coils, falls at the walls to my waiting

i am waiting for you to turn to me and say do you feel it do you taste it does it frighten you and i will smile, and we will lay it a place at the table, silent and we will sit with it and eat

and the wine will sharpen our tongues and my toes will touch yours in the dark

there is a crow at the window it scratches at the glass and feathers the sill with night it holds in its beak a cherry leaf, half yellow from the drawing down calling in sap-fall and letting the summer die in our arms

we are prepared for winter the cupboards are stocked, blankets woven and folded on the backs of chairs but we left the window open and we were not prepared for this

we have never been more ready

the candle smoke reaches the floor, darkens the skirting and the carpet grows ferns moss and the smell of the forest i look down and my thighs have become soil the harvest has come and i am at once mycological and honeycomb, dripping from your fingers, sweet and needy and soft

we take our guest to bed and i grow round, seeded by our desire and our fear i will carry it for a year and a day and deliver it into your waiting hands, naked and screaming and you will kiss it and the window pane will rattle with the night leaving and the candle will consume the tablecloth

the ocean has swelled upriver to the window and we are no longer quiet here naked and wild under spider silk blood on our tongues bark beneath our nails scent of wilderness on our skin

and in that morning, torn apart by birth, split wide and aching we will fling the windows open, shattering in the wind open our bleeding palms to the sky welcome the wolf-howl, storm-rage, silent, strange and strong and we will turn back to the kitchen put the kettle on sit at the charred skeleton of the table drink tea and unravel