Spring, 2021
❄
The kingslayers came in winter.
I was seven, and the Astrum of my mind
was stitched from black snow, and the stories you told,
before it all fell down. So you had taken my hand, before they had reached us,
and we had plunged in, the sinking underbelly of the city you had built
sturgeons and salmon and dead girls diced
and served in parsley. I like to say we sneaked past
the cameras and turbines, our own secret
adventure. What do I remember of suffering?
Every nail, every finger, every arm and leg
I had lost, you only muttered oh dear, reached into that
backpack I carried for your tools. Under the bridge, in a flurry
and we were away, of shadows of swallows past,
cobalt curvatures of light as it gushed into the ocean,
you pointing, urging, go on, Syl, your body is stronger than mine. It was summer
and I felt it in the saline, as they washed over my circuits,
as if I could cry. Mother Mermaid is down there, she misses you.
Is it so wrong to reclaim the throne from the hands of the usurper?