There are nights that pluck at me
like witch-fingers, blood-sisters

I walk restlessly round the room
drink too much, tease, scold, scorn

I may tear something apart – tarot cards or flowers
but my hands are capable of crushing steel and bone

These are the nights when the black wind
flicks stars through the trees like elf-shot

when the black wind glides under my eyelids
so I own night-sight, am cat on the tiles

These are the nights when women shapeshift
fly and alight on a whim like a succubus

naked breasts cold as water, their hair
curled into snakes or spiked raven wings

These are the nights when everything cages me:
your gentleness, our love, the spaces between us

These are the nights, these nights of black wind
when you are best absent, your door closed

while I stay alone with my mirror sisters
watching the wind, the wild moon in my hand.

©Rose Flint