Lore
By Amanda Needham
We built our house in the faery ring
then are aghast when the changelings steal from our cribs.
And there is us, with our love brick heavy,
twice as deadly to soft skulls.
Kissing like smashing bottles,
fucking so hard the Domovoi cower, watching their offering moulder
as we devour each other.
The ghosts can never tell if it is the walls bleeding
or me.
One night there is a scratch on the glass, the windows turn to agate
and the gales begin to moan your name.
I am left. Me, with my cameo face, will o’ the wisp eyes and voice like a banshee.
Bad things follow.
There I found you in a clearing, bloodied axe in hand and righteous toque
in the same red as my hair.
I want to wrap you in the roots of betrayed trees and feed you poisoned apples until you love me
...again.
Cook up the mushroom of our faery ring and
don’t blame the shoddy mycology for your sickness-
It is a fault with your ancestors.
Give it to me and remember how the thunder clapped when we made love
in the lightning
(Before the Wendigo took you)
I can bear it
until I change
back.
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