Always leave the window cracked
If you find yourself aligning your life with a werewolf—
Take the curtains down on the full moon nights,
Lamb's wool for pillows, old iron by the door,
Remember to count the calendar quietly,
And sweep the kitchen floor.
Let me say this again. Listen—
"Always leave the window cracked,"
I mean it, every month repeat:
"Always leave the window cracked."
Keep your shoes by the bedside, in case you wander.
Touch silver only in stories, never on the wedding ring.
Serve soup with caution, thick crust on the bread,
Whistle calmly, not sharp, as midnight draws in.
(I'm telling you, love is practical sometimes.)
Forgive the paws, the fur on the towel,
Patience comes. Fold it over, again, and again—
"Always leave the window cracked,"
Repeat it in your heart,
"Always leave the window cracked,"
Stock up on old blankets, familiar and warm.
You will see.
The best advice is the advice you remember,
As the wind hurries through the fields:
Wanderers need an exit, and a way back home.
Say it softly, say it firm—
Ten times if you must—
"Always leave the window cracked."
For mercy, for marvel, for muddy prints on tile—
"Always leave the window cracked,"
While fur is drying, while night is howling—
"Always leave the window cracked."
Because words are easy, but living with the wild—
Again, say it for luck—
"Always leave the window cracked."