Ice Queen
She’s sleeping with icicles,
squeezing them with white
fists until the daggers bleed water
or stab the cavern’s ice-tray chest.
There is fire in her sickness.
The flu is a commoner’s dilemma.
She calls her sweat: prophecy! the coming of
a prophet! in midday hallucinations.
Fetal position, hands between
that primal space between her
legs. Think of royalty in deep
blue holes and think of spring
in moldy sculptures—fields of
poisonous dandelions.
The flames are only mirror-tricks.
Some prefer to live in fantasy.
Apocalyptic revival! Bolt the doors!
Eat imported ice and I'll feed myself
the frozen grapes! Remember what living
can do to a sensitive stomach.
What would they murmur if
they could only see her so hot?
Embracing the stalactites and gmites
of perpetuity (for balance) she stumbles
towards carved clear and blue.
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