by Lynette Mejía

You come home in the smoke-hued dusk
smelling of dirt and autumn leaves
your mouth stained red with secrets,
a child glutton summer’s day
bright sunshine and too many berries

I come home at dusk, forced
indoors when the light goes, firefly
child burning with the desire
to sleep beneath the stars.

I pull twigs from your hair, ask
questions I know won’t be
answered, I’m feral you say, laughing
(at me?) and go on staring at the dust
dancing in sunlight, just beyond the edge of vision

How can I explain where the time goes,
bent beneath the moon and green
calls, heartbeats twining like vines
around trees, reaching into nothing,
into everything, how I come apart

Come with me, you say, pulling,
that tug like gravity, like winter
every bit of me wolf girl fox
(every bit of you harvester of hearts)

Calling from just beyond nightfall
(I put on my red cloak as I walk out the door)
your breath on my neck, teeth grazing skin
red cloak on forest floor


Lynette Mejía 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 appeared in Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Eye to the Telescope, Liminality, and many others, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award. An avid gardener, she can often be found talking to trees and conspiring with roses. Find her online at