Lupina

I was the baker’s wife.
I used to dance, 
late, on our floured floors, 
spinning in my sequined red.
He’d called me
the fire dream, back then.

Until, through the window
a shapely shape, a shadow, and in 
the moonlight, a darkness rose,
lingering at our door.

My raven hair flew wild 
as night, my delicate hands 
grew gnarled and tight,
and with them, a hunger 
which would not be refused.

My baker and his lover
are gone, they tell me,
and ask if I remember
and regret the bite.

I answer, yes,
but what else could I do—
the fire dream inside me
became a chilling howling
when I caught the glowing
in their eyes reflected by 
the telling moon.


© Jennifer Wagner