Your father, dark: Carpathian or Sioux. But in this mirror, slash of shadows, you look more like Beowulf or Hamlet: blue- spruce eyes, with skin a northern glacial hue. Slurred ghost. Hurt hunter born to die. Or dread prince sacrificed, come back to life. You’re pitched too high for the quotidian, you’ve ditched the baggage of the dollar, drunk and fed on honey-dew, on milk of paradise. Existence in your world cannot sustain itself except in flux: clouds torn, black ice quicksilvered by the sun, red lava plain, a dark core throbbing rays of light that slice old wounds like moons, bleed tides of bliss and pain. |