The world of gold met the world of air
causing cataclysmic motion
that rippled into both infinitely
breaking the worlds into multiple variations,
which then contracted in upon themselves.
The stones shattered into powder,
gave in to the power of dispersal.
My body only belonged to one place.
The place where I made a snow angel in the dusty gold
that covered my world.
Two bodies in one place as yours covered mine.
I know I felt the air move to contain your imprint.
But its fluidity made it impermanent.
You got caught in an ethereal whirlpool.
A spinster spun you like a top.
So much vertigo in that world of air.
You embrace the natural order of the motion
and subtly slow your revolution.
This natural color of mine, gold, lacks vigor, loses its luster.
I am a creature without instruction.
My only action changing lines to points
to become more porous.
Flame dilates.
I cannot subsist singly by myself.
I am a terrestrial body.
Loose atoms rarify and condense
Into the perfect color
As you transmit action into light.
I would assist you in the work of metamorphosing if I could.
I would pattern out the copy of your body using all my senses,
but we cannot last, we cannot form a lasting body.
We cannot go back to the same places we were
for the air continually changes.
Ray Ball is an Associate Professor of History at the University of Alaska Anchorage. When not in the classroom or the archives of Europe and Latin America, she enjoys hiking, biking, running marathons, and spending time with her spouse Mark and dog Bailey. She has published history books and essays with several presses. Her poems have appeared in Alaska Women Speak, Eunoia Review, and Now Then Manchester.
Foxglove Journal 