I was the baker’s wife.
I used to dance,
late, on our floured floors,
spinning in my sequined red.
He’d called me
the fire dream, back then.
Until, through the window
a shapely shape, a shadow, and in
the moonlight, a darkness rose,
lingering at our door.
My raven hair flew wild
as night, my delicate hands
grew gnarled and tight,
and with them, a hunger
which would not be refused.
My baker and his lover
are gone, they tell me,
and ask if I remember
and regret the bite.
I answer, yes,
but what else could I do—
the fire dream inside me
became a chilling howling
when I caught the glowing
in their eyes reflected by
the telling moon.
© Jennifer Wagner
