"White like calamity. White like absolution." (a poem for you)

Loves, I'm sorry for abandoning Six Impossible Things over the past week. It was the week before fall break & the end of a school quarter, so I'm afraid my teachers thought it reasonable to suddenly pile a veritable avalanche of homework on all of us. I found it rather difficult to dig my way out in time to get to a computer. Regardless, I do hope the dragons kept everything dusted while I was away - & here I am with a poem to make up for being gone!

I think you know that these past few weeks have been fraught with tension & anxiety. So this poem, strung out of a sleepless moment sometime past the midnight hours, is somewhat a reflection of that.

(It is about November, though it is still October at the moment, because apparently my panicking, sleep-deprived brain found that to be the most logical poetic option. I... do not even know. But I hope you enjoy it.)

One more thing: in order to celebrate the advent of fall break, my family is taking a mini-roadtrip to a lovely coast off of Malaysia. We are leaving tomorrow & staying till Tuesday; I am mainly planning on sunbathing, drinking copious amounts of lemonade, binge-reading superhero comics.

I am leaving my computer at home, just for a bit of a break - but of course, the dragons will be here to keep an eye on things as always, & I will see you once more on Tuesday or Wednesday.

Have a wonderful weekend. I will be back next week with photographs to share & stories to tell. xx

 

The Wolf Pack Welcomes November 

This is the softest act of violence: frost undressing the bones of the city. Quiet things humming beneath half-lit snowdrifts. I will crack open the muzzle of night until the moon tumbles forth, downhill to daylight, old wounds in a new cradle. November is blue-black playing tag with pristine white. White like calamity. White like absolution.

Somewhere a place I once stood is freezing to death, its cries muffled by winter’s poor imitation of familiarity. A wolf serenades the tender underbelly of night, an ode to her oblivious prey. Somewhere ghost-shadows soft as sin shatter against the sickle-sharp moon. Somewhere train tunnels are oozing unsaid things, and I feel so much lighter when the horizon is the only dagger.

You are warning me to run as fast as I can. You telling me to save myself. Here the sidewalk cracks are naked and drowning in helpless snow. Here I cannot tell the difference between manholes and heart holes, but November pounces clumsy, howls loud enough to almost be mistaken for one of us.

Today I met an old man with lungs like a crooked-sharp catastrophe. He said to me this city will swallow me whole if I do not listen to the wolves. He said to me child, they tear apart every bright thing they touch. Believe me.

And I smiled at him with fangs like sugared frost, shredded his snow-soft disguise until all that was left was a cold grey month teetering on the edge of starvation. I howled the bitterest kind of victory: oh, I know. I am already one of them.