Breathe the stars into my hair–
you cannot catch the ends of it,
wisps of light touching your soul;
You cannot look deep enough down to see me.

I am standing above you, below you, beyond you.
I am long-legged and my shoulders are strong like horses.
I can dance faster than the wind on your eyelashes
and my toes are more deeply planted than a sequoia.

You think I am small.
You think I am shy.
You think I am damaged.

Handle with care, my boy.
For I am wild and incendiary
and you will never catch all of me
you cannot hold me in your hand,
for I am large and contain multitudes.

Whitman was a dick.
He thought he was the father of fey
but he was just a sympathizer,
waiting for his soul to arrive
in the form of a messiah.
He knew nothing.

I am fey.
I am larger than a queen, more wild than Loki,
more beautiful than Helen or Cleopatra.

The skies sing my requiem,
each night while I sleep.
If you touch me, we will burn.

—

Hännah Ettinger lives in Los Angeles and collects stories. She blogs at Wine & Marble.