by Jade Wallace
She smiled before she kissed me,
her teeth flashing like talismans.
Misery left the room
and closed the door behind.
Her mouth tasted like oak and meadowsweet,
as though she were the incarnation of
the woman dreamt by Math and Gwydion.
Her skin burned like vervain,
as her apartment rose farther above
the scent of cars and road-worn courage below.
She took the cold lily from my brow
and covered me with blood-red roses.
I want you…she said.
Three words to finish the charm.
I felt no lonely chasm open when she told me to leave.
My head was heavy with chimeras,
I envisioned kissing everyone
who called herself a woman
just to see how much magic the world could hold.
Jade Wallace works in a legal clinic in Toronto, Ontario. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in The Dalhousie Review, The Nashwaak Review, Draft, Feathertale, Poetry Sz, Breakfast in a Day, Pac’n Heat: A Noir Homage To Ms. Pac-Man, and six chapbooks from Grey Borders Books.