Lady of the Lake by featured artist Jamila Clarke
Listen. My black voice slices deepest water, breaks beams of sunlight
apart. Heat escapes; you live for a night in a vacuum of soul. Shrink-wrap
compression in moonlight, it breathes on tight-lipped ice; coarse, cutting,
freed. My actual presence revives from the outside-in, calms wolf-pack
frenzy, hardening your nipples, the petrification of saccharine stone. You
breathe in, grimacing with fractures, plied together with ringlets of dust,
ready to burst apart into the pearly crux of new, amateur constellations.
You dread the personality of night and ask a stranger to erase stars from
the windshield. Sonograms begin speaking to you with shadowy intent
and your mouth tastes iron at the back of your throat, becoming flavor
behind your knees. You try to avoid the revelations held in the freshest,
black umbrella, but by holding back, you uncover yourself further.
Tomorrow night, it will still be out there, carried by an eastern wind. You
fear its leaving as much as its arrival. A new age creeps inexorably toward
you, desperate to be reclaimed.