WHOLE
Snap.
Rushing, like wind through a door, and Karou was the door, and the wind was coming home, and she was also the wind. She was all: wind and home
and door.
She rushed into herself and was filled.
She let herself in and was full.
She closed again. The wind settled. It was as simple as that.
She was whole.
45
MADRIGAL
She is a child.
She is flying. The air is thin and miserly to breathe, and the world lies so far below that even the moons, playing chase across the sky, are seen from above, like the shining crowns of children’s heads.
She is no longer a child.
She slips down from the sky, through the boughs of requiem trees. It is dark, and the grove is alive with the hish-hish of evangelines, night-loving serpent-birds that drink the requiem blooms. They’re drawn to her—hish-hish —and dart around her horns, stirring the blossoms so pollen sifts down, golden, and settles on her shoulders.
Later, it will numb her lover’s lips as he drinks her in.
She is in battle. Seraphim plummet from the sky, trailing fire.
She is in love. It is bright within her, like a swallowed star.
