king stag, i am -- my brow antlered with gold, my feet shod with the stride of owning each swathe of green, each dun herd a thunder of hooves rolling through forests, plains a wide back
and you, doe -- darting around the yew, seeking the hunter and the arrow in pursuit of a mere yearling -- and you, white tail flashing, scent on wind until my spears reign you in
king stag and chariot spoked with mandate, a scepter and spearpoint in the gut of the challenger, rutting ram, king of the crag who orders roads of stars and what they ordain
i want only what is mine and it is all mine -- vastness, the vault of the firmament the doe, penned in her forest cage. from birth she waits for me -- choice is the province of kings
and you, as you dart behind the green hedge, the cage unlatched -- a pale blue shell in my palm. ownerless, i will fold each finger into a fist and crush your heart into yolk
you think i did not know, when you came with ringlets dearer gold than ingots and that dread beauty -- a pitcher plant luring with its satin and its doom
white black red, you said -- a raven at the feast of death on the blank white sheet of winter, hung out to dry on trees bleak and black, the Cailleach's laundry.
you think i did not know of desire -- the tall, twisted tree of me, with my curled lips strained with curses and song and mockeries that could slay kings with words.
for who am i, the daughter of slaves who caught a druid's eye with her wit and took the job to fence you in, you with fate around your head, a thorn-ring.
but bards are the keepers of secrets, and a daughter of slaves more so. your broad wings clipped by royal decree -- future concubine, caged hawk, hooded.
for bards are the keepers of secrets and you -- a cipher, a key lost to the lock. the hawk must seize the air and sparrow -- so clear the kenning, the end, the tale.
white black red -- the desire runs through you carving red rivers through the hillsides, the king pursing, the green graves you leave in your footprints like daisies, hope.
the endless flight under your feathers, until you're reeled back to the arm and corded, blind, and choose the branch and stone your eggshell skull spilling its yolk.
fly, bird, fly. here is the key to all riddles, all desires, all the pain of your name. and i give you his, and unlatch the wire gate of your prison.
for bards are the keepers of secrets, and the tellers of them, with sharp tongues edging brutal fates from the still air. i knew the tale before its telling.
how long do the embers smolder until the heart heaps into ash? until each bit of bone, blood, hair and hope is eaten by the soft gray mouths of peace and fortress and winter and stone a litany lost, a word trailing
but here i stand, cold-bit hands against your skull, oh Noisiu tugging your tresses and your proprieties crow-feather against my instep, black as your hair, as my night without hope black as the night birthing the year
and my flame-mouth cursing and the reel of you thinking -- "a beauty, but only in flesh -- a hag of the soul, bed-bound to another, and only a pit when the sun-face dims from night"
how long do the embers smolder until the heart heaps to ash? no heifer am i in the cow-pen no slave shackled by rules, but ruled only by the fever that runs red down the mountains, eating the trees
with the clamor of fury, the steel clash of pride, of beauty that is but ornamentation, a bauble, a glass bead crushed under heel -- your heel my baubled heart in your white grip and you, tossing your hair in warding
in warning -- how long do embers flare up until they crumble into coal? the mare stamps -- take me with you, come with me. and you turn, no answer staining your lips as the coals flare
