By Lynette Mejia
It’s the memory of that
fingertip I rage against, its soft
but insistent implications, asking
too many questions, making choices
for me when I’m still stone,
still untouchable, still
Some days I’m a fairy child, half
moss, part bird. Then, I’m the capricious
nature of things, with an ineffable will
and the talons to back it up. I’m
the lightning strike on the edge of one
storm and in others I roll, heavy with thunder.
Once I had a lover with wings as black
as midnight. He showed me how to speak
with the dead, how to take a pale hand,
to kiss it for a wish you could later sell.
Some nights I sit upon your windowsill,
your whispered prayers and warm breath
rising like an offering, moistening my skin
on its way to the stars. In that moment
I want to kiss you, fill you with a taste
of eternity, or maybe rake my claws across your back.
Lynette Mejia writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror prose and poetry from the middle of a deep, dark forest in the wilds of southern Louisiana. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Rhysling Award, and the Million Writers Award. You can find her online at www.lynettemejia.com.