In my telling of the story, she
Lifted his great paw and brushed her cheek against the long, rough pads
And said:

I love the shining of your eyes in darkness.
And if you were a prince again, I’d love you yet;
But I would miss the heavy wool of your undercoat
For my fingers to curl and catch in, in the moment of exigency.
Your guard hairs that turned black and slick that afternoon
The rain caught us by surprise while we were walking.
You were warm and dry, beneath, and me as well, curled in your heat and heady musk.

My mother’s fine hunting hounds never did become puppies again
Crops don’t grow backwards into seed
And I don’t know that it would feel right
If I’d recognize your scent
If I wouldn’t startle if you touched me
If I wouldn’t miss the weight of your horned forehead, the shape of your muzzle
All my days.

Look, your people, already
They are turning leaves, small furred and crawling things, and some
Sing brightly in the morning.

Instead, won’t you
Meet your fangs in my nape, above my shoulder
Not too hard but passing hard,
If the spell works that way
And I will run beside you on long paws, until the sun rises
In exultation
And if not, this is good enough
This is good enough, my love.


In her lean-to, high up the mountainside
Looking down on the falling castle
Playing with the kittens in her lap,
Stroking the spine of her old wolf,
The witch smiled fondly.