Szépasszony

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.

Szépasszony,
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.  


Sorry, Comments are closed.