My eye pierced by a shard
of the demons' mirror,
my heart grown cold,
beating sluggish around
the cold seed of despair,
I sit and watch the snowflakes
swarm and spin,
their embrace all the touch I need.
Here, in the queen's ice palace--
in translucent rooms shot
with the green of glaciers,
the milky white of river floes
thrust up in mad shards,
the deep blue of crevasses
yawning to swallow the unwary--
here I belong, graying skin
pressed against the unmelting.
Love won't dissolve the mirror-shards;
no true kiss to awaken, revive
the past and blaze on the future.
No, only the mercy cut can cure--
the sharp sting presaging darkness,
the colder kiss of steel
against my breast.
In the flow of blood,
washing away the mirror's sins,
I remember summer, dimly.
Jennifer Crow's latest mask is made of peacock feathers and cobwebs, tinsel and dreams. It hides a multitude of sins and secrets, and sounds like the sea when she puts it on. You'll find her in the shadows of the ballroom, writing poetry and singing to herself. And if you want to know what she's singing, you can check her blog, where she occasionally makes cryptic posts about upcoming appearances.
