Winter's Silence

We want some fiercer love
that sears the lover,
some terrible sweetness
that burns a hole in God,
zeroing down the beloved.
Our fire needs
a sepulcher of blackness,
a cauldron for the worlds
that circle and spill over.
It cold be a vulva or a gash.
Between seasons,
we singe our stitches,
weave a silvery veil
of ice and thaw,
gowning our nakedness
in waves of ambiguity.
Put it on, take it off.
Melt edges, get clear.
Drop the sprouting
germ of despair
into the softest furrow,
the place you mistook
for a wound.
Now the snow-kissed
gender-fluid crocus
unfolds purple lips,
abandoning all distinction
between pain and beauty.
At your core is the brilliant
bulb of annihilation.
Therefore, do not reveal
the whole glory.
Keep a secret.
Cradled by night,
be a new moon.
It is enough to know
that the path is simply resting
the mind in the heart.
Winter's silence is the Mother
of all creatures that break open
and swirl up in green fire.

Art by Wendy Andrew