Thursday, April 30, 2015

The For Artemis

In forest of no footsteps. On trail without track. Beasts which creep, beasts which fly, beasts who swim crawl climb are elsewhere. Asleep forever or not dead only. Not here. Never. The color here dies, green graying beneath white, always, barely ever here. Forever.

I am here, and so I am dead, or else called to an accounting by...

I am utterly alone here. Beyond sunlight though forever at noon. I thread my hand against the sky, shutting out nothing white-bright, catching not even ice. Not here. I am reaching toward home and the mountains are furrows, the colors are gray, the white is also gray. I am in a place of distance. It never stops. It goes on forever. It will never die but even then, when the sun is dark, will only not die yet.

I am not alone here.

He does not walk, but he approaches slowly. Labored. His shape rises, falls, a heaving breathing hillside. His crown is dark and velvet, showing only the sun it scorns. Taking the rest. He stands at me, distant, and my seeing sees only him, closer, realer, larger. He fills my eyes. He fills my nose. Grunt and gasp, paw and scratch, and there are no tracks, and he watches me, and he does not look at me.

Waiting toward me forcefully. His shape is power and width and pain. His skin is other skin. His bones are for another shape. Legs trembling that could kick open thunder. Head lolling which has seen Before. Blood shed and being shed, and the whisper silk of web and moss dropped across the back of ten men. Men: I see him. How long has he been He. Who was he? What does He want with him? What does he want with me?

Have you seen the shape of a thing with a man inside it, which is a thing, which is a man, both together, each apart? Only in a dream, and perhaps that be this accounting, for now

His eyes strangle mine and the white is there. It's the forever white, the white I thought I knew and beyond counting. It didn't come from him, nor he from it. They are part of each other. The man and the thing. The thing and the white. The white and me. Grunt and snort, shudder, wheeze....

A breeze of pine is gone before I scent it. There is something I was doing. There is something I must do. A memory stirs: I am here to hunt. That I am. I turn from death, from Only death, and slouch out to white. I leave no footfall. I leave no trace save him. Neither of us belonged here.

I belong here now.

I belong everywhere now.

He wants me here with Him.

I stay, and go, and hunt alone.