by Wendy Howe

On nights when dampness
tan­gles her stars
in a net of mist, you have
called me this—

long-haired lady
who comes to your arms
bare and rub­bing her hoof
against your shin.

Before you turned down the sheets,
I had been run­ning as a doe
so pale and swift,
I matched storm water rushing
over wood­land stones.

You know how the old
sto­ry­tellers of Mag­yar
call me mer­cu­r­ial, snatching
the moment's glit­ter and making
a man think its gold will linger
beyond night into count­less days.

They warn I am fickle
and spin love from the spider's silk.
But I say my fingers
have nev­er touched her spin­dled tongue
nor has my own shim­mered with lies.

these soft syl­la­bles may sprout
sus­pi­cion, but I blos­som fair.
My hands, Dear Love,
stay in your hands
and aban­don time to a low
moon resting
on the shoul­der blade of change.

Wendy Howe is a free­lance writer who lives with her part­ner in the high desert of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia. She has trav­eled the hills, canyons and coast­line of the Pacif­ic includ­ing the islands of Oahu and Maui. She also trav­els through time, myth and his­to­ry as a men­tal shape-shifter, a poet. Her works have been pub­lished in diverse jour­nals includ­ing Flut­ter, Stir­ring, A lit­er­ary Col­lec­tion, Black Mail Press, Sage Trail, Soundzine, Tongues of The Ocean, The Red Riv­er Review, The Vic­to­ri­an Vio­let Press, The Ancient Heart, The 3rd Muse, Eclec­ti­ca, Gob­lin Fruit, Sot­to Voce, Mi-Poe­sias, South­ern Ocean Review, Poet­ry mag­a­zine and three recent antholo­gies explor­ing myth and women's issues which include;  Lilith, Post­cards From Eve and Tip­ping The Sacred Cow.  

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