Saturday, August 06, 2005
My finish to Heather's project
See this small white hand wrapped in blood soaked leather,
See this small white hand wedded to a ring of beaten gold,
This small white hand once held mine,
It is my wife’s hand.
I’ve watched this hand sew stitches too small to be seen,
I’ve felt the touch of this hand on hot and fevered nights,
When its touch was all I craved.
It is your hand, my wife.
How comes my hunter to possess this small white hand,
When it was a wolf’s paw that he severed from its joint,
A killing wolf, a wolf that tore flesh
With my wife’s hand?
How come you to be sitting here without a light,
Your bloodied arm wrapped in a rag, your eyes wild,
While I hold your small white hand,
My wife’s small tender hand?
See, the full moon rises, soon both our secrets will be exposed,
Ours will be a savage mating, and then we’ll hunt the night as one.
I should have known about you, wife.
Wolves mate for life.
Posted by Gail Kavanagh at 8:53 PM