{dreamweaver}
I'm weaving dreams out of matchsticks
And tufts of longing, spun strong into silver chains
And hangman's knots.
My loom is memories
And my shuttle is words
(And snow like angels' feathers drifts onto the blank pages
Leaves tiny teardrop footprints across the brilliance of my fantasies)
My sister sang lullabyes to honeybees at night
My brother poured milk out for the serpents he kissed
And now I hang my wishes from the linden trees and count
each
heart
beat
fluttering in my stomach running fox-and-rabbit parallel
It's cold here.
My fingers are clumsy from the numbness.
You would laugh at me, people? I've gone through fire with bare feet
And steel trembles, you know, when it's being quenched
(Steam spreads its hood upward and when it does it burns
it hisses it strikes
with more venom than the sword will ever have—)
Outside my window, the world keeps turning.