Skywalker

A return to form

Remedios Varo, 1961

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These wings

carry light,

melt gold,

toil, trouble,

spin and mold.

These wings

are an altar

so you never falter

in the trembling space of altered states.

Your soul arrives and salts her

wounds,

wombs,

and tombs.

She evacuates the rooms carved in daylight,

prayed over in nightfall temples—

doomed, but unscorned

until she abandons the clutch

and instead allows the gentle,

angelic

touch

to carve her once more.

Golden tresses thread her through time,

rising,

fifty feet tall,

unencumbered by what is to come,

because beneath the surface

hums a hum

hum

hum.

Remember your name.

Remember your origin.

Remember the battle

you will forge again.

And what remains

is a crystallized wing—

frozen droplets of time

melting across the icecaps

of a land so muted,

waiting,

waiting,

waiting

for the frost to loosen

and turn itself

to liquid

once more.