I revive in a snow-covered, glass coffin,
wearing a pearl-colored taffeta gown.
Jasmine oils my skin—
dusky like tea steeped too long.
I am so stained by the fragrance, my skin
should have a yellowish cast, but it doesn’t.
It’s waxy white and space dust cold.
My lashes are frozen shut, and my eyeballs
slush from left to right.
I hear a scraping shriek, then shatter.
When I open my eyes, you’re gazing down at me.
“How did you sleep?”
You smile and pull me up, hand me a cup of muddy coffee.
I inhale the steamy dark,
drink, and alertness charges through my skin.
You toss me a wolf’s pelt.
Its head flops forward, and its claws rake the air.
“Quickly! Put this on.”
As soon as I place the mantle over my shoulders,
it knits into my skin. I drop down on all fours,
and clack my teeth together. I’m warm and ravenous.
I hear a hawk’s cry. You’ve alighted on a spruce
tree’s bough. Snow shivers and dusts my muzzle.
Your golden eyes gaze intently down at me.
You flutter your wings and
whoosh! You’re riding the north air.
The hunger is delicious and my body is
lithe and sinuous—like I’m stretching into it after
a long fall sleep. The soft snow pushes me
forward as I bound ahead. We’re tethered together
by a golden cord, and your wings' drumming
propels us into a synchronous momentum.
Crunch, sweep, crunch sweep we run and fly
through days and dreams, nights and doings
onward and on and on we travel through the snow.
It’s a medium: soft and viscous, then powdery and light
until we cease and become the snow, itself, riding the north air
into joyous Nothingness.
You are the gold, and I am the blue in the Northern Lights,
twirling together and unbraiding, we trinity with the ether.