I went from being a frozen tundra:
fields of algid ground to cover with
no visible tracks to follow
unless the wind was kind and left the prints
which it wasn’t often,
taciturn but for some
icy speech;
bleak         caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze,
stick to your cheeks,
harden               bite your tongue
with staggered arctic chomps
so it takes a while before we
completely cut those meek coughs
off just as they start.
Before they form into expectorant,
white noise, handwritten
cards,
I sprout into a raging sun:


precocious and blazing
hot, I become
a long bending desert to
warm you up:
fields of sand to cover,
infinite high noon run,
no moon to come,
hollowing the others with
deprivation,
with promising mirages,
a bereaving desiccation,
sudden sidewinders and a
slow draining dehydration,
never an inch of rain and you
find every trap I laid.

I start by slaughtering your brothers
in front of you to see
if you can stand it.

“sekhmet”

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