I went from being a frozen tundra:
algid, wide and growing fields of ground to cover with
no visible tracks to follow

unless the wind was kind and left
the prints

but it wasn’t often.
taciturn but for some
icy speech and bleak; 
caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze
and stick to your cheeks,
harden               bite your tongue
in frostbit chomps so it takes a while before we completely cut those
meek coughs off

just as they start.
before they form into spit,
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,
 promising mirages,
a wide and weaving
ever-longing
desiccation,

sudden sidewinders and a
slow and draining
drip that never hits and
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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