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lycanthrope
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the well in the village mirrored the sky. the boys would go and dip
their faces into buckets of cold clouds and secondhand blue.
if the well ever emptied, half the sky would be gone. when she
would walk to the well, the shyer boys would sooner stare into the sun,
than her eyes which carried yesterdays sun as well.
down little dirt roads, her feet awoke volleys of dust, masking
the sweet scent of her wake. the air she left behind was less breathable, the air in which she stood in, somehow more.
at night over the soft din of violins, the sky was marred by shutters
and families talking over warm bread, liberties which took like laws.
when she passed by each morning, women would rest their
hands on each others shoulders, and not hide their tiredness.
the men would tilt their heads up as if drunk, and for a moment forget their way home. when she left finally.
she was a cautionary tale told to sons by mothers.
a lesson, so they'd ignore what couldn't be real.
but it was too late.
they'd stare into the well all day.
she was a constellation they put into the wrong sky.
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021014
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