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.
2 comments:
Gail, this is too great for words...but what kind of writer would I be if I couldn't find them?
This is amazing, wonderful I'll probably think of it at night when I'm all alone in the dark,
and I'll be smiling the entire time....
Yours In Admiration and Awe
Anita Marie
Thank you, Anita Marie - from you, whose stories I admire so much, that is praise indeed.
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