Were-Wife

Were-Wife

She is a fetish shaped from twigs and scraps:
that's my only explanation. Perhaps
the threads binding her limbs are puppet-strings,
with me as the marionette who sings

and dances to her mad and silent tune,
in praise to the whorls on the wooden spoon
that forms her face. Hers is an eldritch grace:
she is a curse who walks unclothed by skin -

- her blood is mine: I take a silver pin
and prick my palm, then smear her rag-doll breast
with my heart's red fever. She looks distressed,
but such a look is born of craft and guile.

She is no Judy, but more Crocodile
to my Punch: were-wife swallows me for lunch.