The Poetry Marathon

Thousands of miles from home,

fourteen hours of flying,

two years of waiting,

I turned over, and he was there,

us asleep together, bodies intertwined,

to wake up and know he was there,

this was real, and it was not a dream.

Crunching snow beneath heavy boots, I walked alone.

Hands tucked in my pockets, breath fogging as clear light glinted.

But as snow began to fall, there was such a weight. Such a weight

like a man’s, heavy, when pure, clear air was sliced open

with a stench from a something. And though I couldn’t look,

not until I turned, I could see it, waiting, watching, with manlike intelligence.

Wendigo, a small voice said, but it was already too late.

It sat, long arms propped on thin knees, shaggy head bent,

baleful eyes watching with a glinting red.

“I was starving,” it rasped. A clawed hand flexed, but still its’ head bowed.

“My children cried.”

Was it asking redemption, I wanted to ask. But I remained silent.

My heart pounding, but feet frozen, waiting. Almost daring.

Animal cunning, manlike hatred.

Again it spoke with the voice of a man, in a growl,

so hard my teeth rattled and my legs bowed.

“The hot anger in your heart will leave you cold in the ground.”

Then I woke. But still the memory remains, and

“The bodies of three individuals were found. Witnesses claim to have seen the father wandering through blizzards, but they had been deceased at least three months and partially—“

Bent over my workbench at midnight,

painting, drawing, patiently marking down

small pieces of art, quietly cataloguing

all the silly things I do for art, for love,

for following money. The shop filled

with niche likes, the cheap art and

the many things I love and surrender

to be taken elsewhere. Impostor syndrome

whispers in my ear; will they ever care enough

to take my loved things, buy them and bring them home?

Hot.

The feeling crawls up, between my legs, sliding against my back,

and I can’t help but shift forward, hips pressing back as I wait,

ass tilted up, quivering as I wait. I want to hear that low voice,

a simple command, a rough hand gripping hard enough to mark,

teeth against my throat. There’s always a primal urge, to hold back,

to bite, to rake and take and snarl as he grips back, eyes blazing

with that smirk, that taunt as he teases, edges me until I melt,

until I beg, with his voice low in my ear, making me want

to pull him closer between my thighs until I fall apart.

“Good girl.”

Many years ago, I read a story of a small girl, lost and alone.

Selling matches by the book, fingers stained black with soot,

ignored on this frozen day, lighting matches to make her way.

And I remember feeling grief for a tale, of a girl so long ago,

lighting matches by the book to retain a lively glow.

And if the moral of this story is, be careful what you dream,

may I continue lighting matches to keep the light burning.

I was ghosted.

Spent the second day of the new year alone,

crying,

downing an IHOP sundae.

Dressed in my finest.

Swearing off men.

But the next day, a ping.

A note from another man,

but wanting friendship.

A slow time, counting moments,

minutes, hours, days,

and now this new man,

this love of mine,

is a blessing in countless ways,

after feeling worthless for so long.

I, Phylippa, have been sold.

I have been bought, bride-price levied,

and dressed for my husband.

I have been poked and prodded from the herd,

and chosen worthy of the laird.

I, Phylippa, have been used.

My mother’s voice, veiled head bowed,

whispering, “Don’t be a burden, accept.”

Accept that you were chosen,

accept your role and be silent.

I, Phylippa, have been broken.

My lip split at a hard-ringed hand,

coarse laughter at my wit,

His angry eyes as blood welled in my mouth.

I would not stay silent.

I would not accept.

I, Phylippa, have been taking what’s mine.

I bit his throat. I tore his eyes.

I took his men and his brides.

I will not accept, I will ride and fight.

Curse me or bless me, do as you might,

But

I, Phylippa, was right.

There’s this warmth that starts in my chest when I hear him happy.

It starts up, like a fire, and I feel the urge to blush, and try to contain

the feeling that wants to burst out, full-throated, throwing my head back

and joining him in howls and gales, racuous and uncaring

as we both lose ourselves in hilarity. One starts up another,

and looking at each other is a mistake, until tears roll

and our faces ache from smiling.

Once, a hairclip went missing.

My mom was furious;

it was Gran’s, pearly and white.

But one day, there was a tap, tap, tap,

and when I ran, there it was.

At the door. But a puzzlement;

a crow feather beside it.

He’s an odd fellow,

not like the rest.

No shinies he covets, or fills his nest.

He’s the town’s lost and found,

returning the riches,

our favorite resident,

we call him Robin the Hood.

Snug in lamplight

Looking out

There is only the bright snow,

and the long distance,

but home is here, and

I am most at home with you.