the queen of cold

leaning on the wall, I feel the grain of it a blue wall on which my back, hesitant, tests the water, touches, a first circle of skin lands, the wall was lonely, and cold, it infuses the skin at contact

the circle retracts

comes back this time bigger the edges meet the cold, now known by the center the wall sinks in the skin i greet the guest

on the red carpet a queen of cold walks in, she is wearing a silk robe, coloured of the night, she holds her look up, she walks in my body

the queen of cold has a story in her young years she would gather curious listeners and from her lips told of a feeling, but its heat was insufferable for the audience was cold, and had stories of their own

like water of melting ice people leaked away from her, till of her thawed story remained a shard frosted, blue the shard would not melt, and remained cold so did the queen became

the shard rests on the ring on her right hand

some say one night she was leaving a club when three men attacked her she put her hand to protect herself from their hands the shard pierced the palm of the first man who tried to touched her the blue shard turned red and grew a sword now, she was cutting the second man through his chest with it the third, frightened, turned back to run

she looked at her hands, from the shard the blood leaking reminded her of her story alone in that alley she bathed

it was the night of yalda on the field between darkness and light she was crying in the blood of soldiers her tears turned the pool into silk and her robe stole the colour of the night

the wall grain is the shard on her ring and she gave me her robe to wear

—lambda.velorum