The Blood Husband

That first time we knew
by the three spots of blood
left in the snow
outside your apartment,
the style of night sky
up above us…

Drunk, we wanted wolf song,
we wanted the rush
of the hunt, the scent
of a kill in the air,
a hint of winter,
in every touch.

Some sort of town fox,
you said, before our kiss,
the first, enough to be
smitten by, to swear oaths for,
to see as a blood pact
by the time you’d finished.

Indoors, you were
less mythic, another
traveller, someone
to keep warm with
for a night. Your wrist watch
became a moon at our bedside.

I didn’t mind,
next morning, when
I roamed your apartment alone,
collecting my clothes,
conscious of bath rings,
sad dawn light falling
on dish towels, dust curls…

It was always thus
that a blood husband
you wrestled with
the previous evening
transformed overnight
into someone else,
barely possessing a name,

or forwarding address,
becoming within weeks

lost amidst the faces
you see each time
you close your eyes to sleep
under the fractured light
of some waning moon.

—David Mohan

David Mohan is a poet and short story writer based in Dublin. His poetry has been published in The Cincinnati Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Lake Effect, Stirring, Measure, Superstition Review, New World Writing, PANK, and Dialogist. His poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.