Her body was blue and covered by stars,
I traced the glacial lake with deer and willow
until the silver morning.
Winds tremble in the birch around the spring
who gives the roaming children each a secret name
Cool of the blade in the sheath at my waist,
glass cast and sapphire she gives of the air
as the lowering waters bared a skeletal hill.
I drank in her mothering deep
like a horn for the dead she protects
in our darkness.
Sleeping in a casket window painted blue,
her outstretched arms enthrone my source
where the new moon drowns.
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.