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Dark Side of the Moon, by Bryn Marlow

Change is possible. From under my skin I know this. From inside out I know this. By the fire that burns white hot in the dark place I know this. Change comes at night. Change comes as Maiden Moon mothers Crone. Change comes. Change.
Come, change. Come.
And in the chant, in the pale light of the Crone it comes, it comes. The cool damp of cold wet walls comforts me, quiets me. I drop song, all sound, blouse, bra, pants, panties. Naked now I stand, ready, open, willing. Energy rises. It warms from within, erupts on the skin of my arms, my legs, my belly. The hair grows long, longer, shags the floor. Fingers meld, face morphs, whiskers sprout, tail spindles. I pad to the door, stretch all four feet, slip into the night.
I lift snout and howl my desire to you, Dark Lady. Distance keeps him alive. Would that he were closer. I would sniff him out as he sleeps, open his neck, rend and tear with teeth his pale white flesh. Then would they be safe, my children, my future. Out of his reach, away from his influence. Would I could sprout wings, fly to his side, correct the curse of his existence. But bound we are by what we are, by what we may become.
Sleep on Despiséd One, unknowing, untouched by tooth and claw. Your time will come, as it does for all infidels. The betrayer will be betrayed.
He left me. I could not breathe. He left me. Left me without job, help, hope. Left me to care
for the children alone. Telling me he loved me, he left me. The air so thick with lies I gasped for breath, he left me. For 10 years I gave him my heart, my body, my all. I gave him the prime of life, hard labor, four children. He gave me a sham marriage, a slap in the face, “thanks for the memories.” He left me. For a man he left me. Took me for a fool and left me for a man. My hackles rise.
He demands time with my children, pretends he loves them. Wants to touch, hold, infect them with his lies. Wants them to lean on him, learn from him.
Be warned, traitor. I will protect those I love to the death. Yours or mine.
I cloak myself in my resolve. It warms and comforts me, reminds me I am yet alive. Its hearth magic gets me through the day, takes me to the run-free night—the night, the blue-black, black- backed night. The hours between the worlds, between time, between change and being.
At night and in my dreams I roam the side streets, alleys, the bushes and shadowy groves. I sniff the cool air, parse the scents, search for one specific sweet-sour smell. By the Lady I abjure you, come. Answer the call of my desire.
Come back to me, dear. I want you. I love you, DaddyBoy. I need you. Hold me tight. Hold your little girl. Stroke my hair, DaddyBoy. Let me lay my head in your lap. Let me taste you, Daddy. Let your little girl have a taste. Rrrrrr.
Baby, oh Baby Daddy, my baby, my own baby. Come to momma, baby. You know you want to. Come suck at momma’s fountain, drink her sweet milk. Yes, drink my sweet milk; I’ll hold you close and lap your warm blood. Momma’s gonna take real good care of you, baby.
I want you, LoverBoy. Your long body. Your supple flesh. I want you in me, inside me, all of you, inside me. I will take you in and keep you safe. I will open your chest with my teeth, feel your heart
thump against my tongue, let it catch in my throat ere I swallow it down. I want to feel in my jaws the crunch, grinding crunch after the initial snap. Come fill me. Satiate me with your flesh. Penetrate me, permeate me. Suffuse me. Change me. Make me whole, make me human. Engulf me in your love, empower me with your strength, enable me to live.
I want you. I want you in me. You will change me. This I feel—in my gut, blood, bones, animal hunger, this change. This change will come.

Come, change. Come.

BIO:  Bryn Marlow (gayfeather, writes and raises chickens on a wooded 1930s farmstead in east central Indiana. His writing has appeared in The Sun, Utne Reader, White Crane Journal, various anthologies and elsewhere.