The Raed

by Jennifer Crow

You might hear a whisper
in the trees, a sliding susurrus
around the eaves, and think it
merely the conversation
of leaf and wind, a hint
of lonely autumn swept
past your home. You might, or
you might be deaf to my passage,
the dance of souls
on a liminal evening, past
and future tangled amid
the looming present. Perhaps
with shutters barred,
with salt laid and a faithful hound
stretched across the threshold,
perhaps you feel safe.
Perhaps you forget tales
of horned huntsman and fey debts,
hollow hills and changelings
and eternal twilight—
at least until fate
slips under the door
and lays its cold hand
against your throat.

If Shakespeare and Sappho had a poetry cage-match, Jennifer Crow suspects they'd end up trading couplets about dark, beautiful women. Neither dark nor aesthetically pleasing, Jennifer hides in a cave near a waterfall and scribbles poetry on birch leaves.

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