Howl

tell me a tale. just one more.

draw out a new epic in your mind to limn

for me and gulf the mire that owns you

with a wave not shed from my eyes.

but tone down all the blue this time.

add a hint of gold,

a dash of hot pink, or teal, or jade,

any rich hue to lure the gaze away

from damp soil, a name cut into gray slab,

and a vase of iris set to wilt—

a gift less for you,

and more to calm the soul who left it

in lieu of an obol to help you rest.

—

wake up and tell me a tale

that ends with no void to fill.

any tale, even one that hits home,

hits hard and digs deep,

into the skin, down to the bone,

like the wolf trap that bit my shin

when we ran past the edge of the wood,

too high on life to mind each step,

too numb to pain to pace with care,

fast feet apt to trip.

—

tell me a tale but omit the end

so its jaws won’t snap shut on the last leg

of our trek. this time i can’t

limp home with your arm to lean on.

—

toss me a line

from any poem, any myth,

any word from your lips

to lug me out of this rift,

or i’ll claw my way in to join you.

take me back to that wood

the same way you took me out

when a gash from sole to calf

tore my grin into a howl.

a firm palm on my back, a soft tone

to curb any fear, of the rust,

of the shot: your “i’m here,

you can make it, don’t fret.

it’ll scab. it’ll heal.

so what if you have a scar?

wear it as a sign of your grit,

like a hero, like a god.

you know who else has a scar on his heel?”

you wove each myth into a cast,

a vial to heal the ache,

to hush the wyrm of pain

that got cozy in my core,

its low hiss soon to be lost by the veil of your lilt.

—

let’s make a deal.

i’ll try my hand at your art and tell this tale,

then you show me how it’s done.

i’ll spin a saga and you lay out the lore,

fill in the gaps, but don’t tell me the end.

—

this one’s set in the wood, by the old red oak

who knit us cots in the soil out of root and bark.

we’d lie in the dirt and peer past its arms at a dead sky.

not one star,

not one spot of fire

to defy the cold, vast void.

just the lone moon, a pale bow in the dusk:

like a ship you’d fold from a note card

then set it free to sail in a sea of ink.

a thin ship with a weak hull,

wary of its fate to sink.

a glum moon in a drab sky,

wary of its fate to wane

as it’s dyed into a new moon.

as it dies with a new moon in its wake.

but it’s keen to dive into the ink,

and feel it seep into each nook,

keen to swim and soak it up fast

to get the end over with.

for once, the moon won’t have a solo to sing,

for once, it won’t have to be all on its own.

—

i said i’d tell a tale, not that it’d be mine.

you own this one. it’s you who’s the bard.

i kept each word you ever said in my head

so that i can’t bury it with you.