Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
by Jared Povanda
In the fairy tale, the wolf waits.
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Up three stairs, always three, I greet the door’s jowls and crawl on this new oatmeal bed. A bed without my dead husband, without any reminders of blood or backward limbs, smoke or sear or bone, and desire myself to the wolf’s lower, spoon bleached fur into my mouth.
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In the fairy tale, I cry like a grackle.
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So many different smells.
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In the fairy tale, long after the wolf has fallen asleep, I pretend my wrist is a different wrist and kiss the skin goodnight.
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Jared Povanda is a writer and editor who would live in a fairy tale if he could.
