Her arm, a light porcelain, marbled with a series of veins and arteries. Sometimes she thinks she’s cold, a stone. She takes a sacred bath, a bit too warm for many, candles burning messages into her sweat, to see through the cold, if she wants to. She knows that spheres from the furthest reaches are born from heat, sandwiched inside a cold vacuum. Our sun maybe different. No one knows for sure, it plays pranks on us. Fires look the same but are built of independent flames. Words are there and she wonders if they’re written or spoken, both? Thamus listens to her and will never forget her. Thoth writes her notes down in secret. Neither are good students of love.
I touch her arm, press lightly and gaze at the indents I make.
(Prairie falcon feather. Image taken where it was found. Click to enlarge.)