I still dream of the chasing—
your arms, scented of roses and fire.
As the star-departed sky
left silver yawns in your hair,
our smiles trembled upon
a border of gold and earth.

The savanna painted your eyes—
its horned creatures
seemed so small
at the edge of your skirts
while your hands pulsed
within the fingers of the world.

Tell me, my lord-father,
who else is like her?
Her mere breaths redden hearts;
saffron shoulders guard empires,

while my hair coils into dust,
and my muscle into papyrus.
A handful’s years more, and I would
no longer know moon from sun.

While my limbs still sing steel,
and my lips sculpt words,
let me bloom by your feet a prayer,
so as winter takes my last dawn,
I shall shed not skin, but wings of petals.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift in honor of C. S. E. Cooney during our annual Kickstarter.]