Sun

There was the incense of my bed chamber. There was the ring on my calloused hand.

I sent the dogs into the field. I followed the season into harvest. I trained with the rest in the cold.

And now that I am feared by the women taking their cups to the stream, I am but the fiery star that singes the green, abundant grass.

The small animals burrow down to hide the softness of their coats.

And my certainty wavers. Like any source of light.

Armature

Of her body is the blue girl, the kneeling woman, knees bruised, of terracotta and coiled wire—like the soldiers, she thinks she is of yore, she thinks she is of twenty cups, ten vases, and five lanterns, that each flicker in the dim light, cool air of the underground.

She thinks that as the blue girl, still the blue girl, she may glow red, high noon, in cavern and cavernous, fingers stiff with clay, eyes bouncing from stalactites.

The brown bat in the corner is asleep, and the girl can trace the softness of its nose in her head, and know that softness will crumble—the color will harden, and she has an invitation—wire skeleton, good pottery—that she can extend, for an eternal and fiery winter.

Katja Jackson is an artist from the Washington, D.C. area. She has work published or forthcoming in Trace Fossils Review, The Broadkill Review, and Twin Bird Review. Find her on Instagram @xtreewomanx.