The Fieldstone Review

Between Cultures


The north wind whistles through my wounds
Windigo, Windigo
I am torn, broken, cold, and alone
Windigo, Windigo
Your needle claws scar my arms
The moon stares down
All sharp edges
A scythe cutting across the sky
No mercy there
Oh, Windigo, Windigo
I seep into the snow, raw, torn, bleeding
As the north wind whistles through my wounds