But you’re not a fox-witch, so maybe
it wasn’t how you handed him your damp
bloomers, it was that you had on any
at all. Maybe it wasn’t your half-vamp
eyes, your toothy smile. Maybe that which
bewitched him was when you said: come away.
Maybe. You, who aren’t fox or witch,
had gone out in first light and found this stray
man-cub. “Come away, O human foundling,
to my den in the hills.” All that fogbound
winter he slept naked in your arms. “My
little toy,” you called the boy. “My play thing.”
Maybe he loved your wicked smile when he found
that your bloomers were damp. We all know why.