Mirrortide

The white tree in the courtyard. White blossom, petals fall like snowflakes, fluttering feathers from dove boughs. Feathered branches, they whisper, “hush,” they say, “hush my dear.” A thousand bristles sing a chorus, sing quiet, like mother, they sing quiet.

Warm air, pressed on cheekbones, presses brow, presses eyes closed. Air hums, buzzes, jitters, teeters in balance, anticipating. Anticipates what, I wonder, thunder? A blue bolt of blue sky? But no. No cloud to call it. If there was, could split air, could rip through the white tree in the courtyard, perhaps.

What a strange thing to think.

The warm air swaddles close, wraps arms, presses palms on shoulders tensed. Untense and relinquish to the warm air. Closed eyes, without sight of skin, limbs fade. Skin as solvent dissolves a freckle at a time, blurring me, blending me into the warm air. I am one with the warm air. I am one with the world.

I fear sunfall, dusk’s cold crawl on skin and biting teeth. White eyes, o black sky, blinking stares.

What a thought, of dark, of cold, of blinking stares, unblinking stars. The sun cannot set or call no dark for there is no sun I’ve seen in – how long? There is no sun in sky, o cloudless blue, for I’ve seen no sun since – how long?

Blinking, unblinking, wake to a warm world, no sun, o bright sky. The white tree in the courtyard. White blossom, petals falling since – how long? Fall like snowflakes from boughs and branches, clutter in creases and tree gnarls. Creases carved in a white tree. Symbols marked on a white tree. A name driven into a white tree.

Chrysios.

Where are you Chrysios?

What are you Chrysios?

What a strange thing to think.

What a thought, of Chrysios, of what or who or why is Chrysios. Where is Chrysios, o where is Chrysios? What a strange thought; of sisters, of missing, of failing; heartbroken skin-carved screaming cries ringing out in cracked helmets.

What a strange thing to-

Who is Chrysios?

An answer, close, like feathers on white branches, balanced in humming air, precipice points. Chrysios is. Chrysios was? Chrysios is, but gone, for how long?

The warm air is too warm. Presses palms on thoughts, massages brain behind brow, quells fear, quells want, quells thought. Warm air swaddles close, wraps arms.

Sleep comes.

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