by Serena Fusek
If she plaits him
into the locks of
her hair coiling strand
over strand as she
breathes his name
pulls the loop tight
wraps a red thread
around the ends—
she weaves smoke
into her web.
He is a ghost
a shapeshifter,
the name she whispers
is only what they call him.
Though his arm around
her neck was sinew and
bone his true form hides
in the acid in his marrow
slides through all links
like quicksilver,
brushing her nape
like the night air.
She feels it slide
across her flesh
like a razor
used to tease
even as she ties
the thread into a knot
around the atoms
of his scent.