Tonight my sky is made of
the fallen limbs of stars
their once-light tracing memory
over my eyes,
their once-warmth
gone.

This must be a night longer
than the strength of any day,
this must be
a wolf’s prize,
Ragnarök, when all days die
and all clocks

forget their hours  (they’re ours?);
tonight my sky
is made of fractured me,
one canine here, one wolf pelt
where the North Star used to burn.
Tonight, tonight

my growls are starcenter heavy,
ironcold, and
bold.
And I don’t know the dawn
that can kill the echo
of the wolf inside me.

[Alexandra Seidel probably caught the myth and fairy tale bug while she was out in the woods one midsummer day. Meanwhile, the disease has turned her into a Rhysling-nominated poet, a writer and editor. Her first collection of stories and poems, All Our Dark Lovers, is forthcoming from Morrigan Books on Valentine’s Day 2013. Other work may be found in Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit, Stone Telling, and elsewhere. You can follow her on Twitter (@Alexa_Seidel) or read her blog.]