All I was expecting was a wooden song

I feel as though



I had walked
through an ancient forest
and the wind was whispering/whipping sonnets
then
suddenly,
I found myself
freed from the fierce vines and Mimir’s guardian branches,
in a clearing
under
a half-lit canopy of stars.

In this place I discovered a precarious stone,
encircled with knife-sharp spines that were
endless threats,
but which had,
as an exception,
one smooth hollow, like Baldur’s throne,
within which I then rested.

In an instant a strange and powerful mist
was clinging to
my eyes
my face
my hands
and the grass beneath my feet;
indeed it enveloped all things
living and dead and dying.
It did not obscure the stars.

I closed my eyes and let
the mist take me.
For a moment I could no longer hear
the sounds and screams of war,
as if such barbarity were a
fanciful
indulgence of imagination
and not a grim reality.

The mist became less dense and a vapored entity
quite gingerly appeared. I did not know what to say,
most attempted greetings had made little sense to any other delusions,
so prudently I kept my hands by my side and I was silent.
She asked me what I could tell her of the world.

- It seems to be here entirely by accident. It is a speck
in the grandiose expanse, like the blood a pin-prick
pools into a miniscule bead on the pad of a lover’s palm;
one that would bring you to the brink of impulsivity,
a consuming desire to pull her hand to your lips and
gently take the blood to be your own- which is to say that
generally clarity of self is valued above evaluation of a broader situation.
The human inhabitants all have murderers as antecedents.
There are many other animals and their pedigrees
share that same black shame.

I asked her if she had a name,
and if any were like her.

- My name is Atlanta, chosen because I have a fondness
for the myth and for both of its themes. One of them
demonstrates that with great ability and a… certain amount
of guile and assistance, one can escape an undesired Fate
(though no threads are then changed upon the loom).
It also serves to remind people that they will not receive
the necessary extraordinary help required to avert
their varied mundane crises, and so stifle and diminish
the surprise on shocked faces when ill news first arrives.
And to answer your second question, if there were others
like me, then I would not be Me at all, would I?

She asked of the state of the world.

- As always it is a state of wealth enmeshed
with alarmingly frequent bloodshed. Some
have said that we descend quickly to Hell.
Because millions die from enemies too small
to even crawl or even creep but they create
crevices so deep in those that survive,
and even in their families huddled over one dinner plate,
because children starve and their hair is red,
because a man can be murdered for a loaf of bread,
many visit church services to escape…
others prefer a whiskey drink or even
swimming out to sea to sink. Old alliances
are dead as dense-packed stone. Only one
power can do anything at all and all others
stew in their own bones as they await a clarion call.

I asked if there was anything she'd like to say.

-I was captivated for a time by the French language,
and how within it there were subtleties that could emerge
that would bring a crowd of nobles to their knees
in fits of laughter. For example, the word for death is la mort,
while love is l'amour. However, when pronounced
they sound identical, which has had interesting consequences
in the French vernacular. There is much to be said when love
and death sound the same, but I shall not say it. I am quite tired,
you see. I have lights to stare upon and miles more to go.

I was about to beg her to stay,
to gash my knees and back and neck
on the rock and stone;
if it was required,
to dispose of sanity
and follow her forever
and she laughed lightly (droplets falling from her lips).
“I must leave,” she said. “Your eyes betray your intent,
your intent betrays your discontent,
and though once before, with valiance,
I ran so swiftly that I could match the stallions
on the first real day of spring,
I do not owe you such a thing.”

Most of the mist turned to steam,
quickly brushed away by the wind.
On my lips it lingered longer
as I stood again and forced my way
with breaking branches towards the glen.

As soon as the starlight faded from view
I instantly knew that if I should attempt
a return, that the rock and trees and clearing
may well remain, but that I would not see her again.

I found the narrow corridor
between the mountains
and heard the preening of a peahen.
They have been accused of being drab,
but it is only because they are
more versed in holding onto secrets
that they choose to appear in this fashion.




I clear my throat and say my surname
three loud times.
“You’re late,” a chorus chimes.
“It is not my fault. I met someone
who I did not expect but now
she’s disappeared and I shall never
find her again.”
“He’s exhausted, can’t you see?”
some well-intending soul says.
“Quick, someone, bring him some water.”
I refuse this kind offer and lay my head
on a carpeted floor, intent on
dreaming the dreams
that I allow myself to dream,
with the mist's embrace coolly burning
its unique feeling into memory.