A Shapeshifter's Journey
By: Abby Ripley
Fragrant lilies on a moon-filled night
Connect the shapeshifter to cricket song
In the thicket, to tree frogs that click like toys
A moth confused by his white guayabera
Bumps into his shoulder. Free-falls through
Dark haze, trailing motes from flailing wings
He pauses in the shadow of a pear tree,
Gazing at the night beacon through branches
Of ripened pears, brittle stems, brittle leaves
On a bench under a verdant pergola
Sits a beguiling figure covered in gossamer cloth
Which diverts moonbeams from her profiled face
It's a young woman whose breasts
Reflect the light like chips of mica
Whose alabaster skin glows from within
The shapeshifter's libido propels him forward
Like a mist, funneling through the woman's mouth
To possess her, enslave her to unholy encounters
Interrupted by the shaman's whistles,
His hisses, the thumping of his ritual drum
And the scent of smoldering sacrifice
The shapeshifter heeds the call of his master
Returns to the subterranean den of animals
Alive on the flame-lit glyphed wall
He embodies the master who restores
Order while shaking his shaggy head and
Purifying the bloodied site to awaken
Meanwhile the young woman in gossamer cloth
Continues to bask in the moonlight, unphased by
The shapeshifter's temporary visit and intention
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