Lupina

Jul 16

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

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