Work Text:
A garnished crown, against your hair, light
flushing like the fire it shapes.
Your uncle refuses to call
this an end. I agree and accept
his offer for tea. Three cups
of cinnamon apple spice.
You and I - we are an alchemy,
elemental fusing, a chase like
sun for moon, moon for sun.
You with fire, my water.
Never mind the warning - let us be
the alarm. Let us be new.
Our grief, like sharp stones
in our chests, we pull them out
and clear the lungs and hearts.
Breathe and beat drumlike.
Pile the stones in a shared box, something careful
in the way you close the lid.
Your country’s still burning, and mine
melts, but time will take care.
You show me your mother’s garden,
the summer green still bright.
I tell you what the lightning looks like, and
your eyes tell me why you caught it.
A plaza full of smoke and light and blue
burns in my mind, still too clear,
and you turn me away with stories
about turtleducks,
laughing with your cousin before he died,
your mother’s last words.
The crown still shines in the evening dark, and I think
there must be some lightning left in you.