I wrapped myself in silk.
I wrapped myself in the silk of my body, curled in the brittle house of a sassafras leaf.
I spent the winter asleep.
I spent the winter asleep through the howls of change. Broken. Dissolved.
I tasted the forest.
I tasted the forest until I had no mouth, and became her completely.
There are no words for this unfolding.
There are no words for the alchemy of the body.
Can you wrap yourself in the silk of your thought-body?
Can you surrender to the the house of your spirit?
I am Promethea.
I am Promethea—winged goddess, mistress of night—and I embody the fire you seek.
It is not a gift.
It is not for your hands.
Still I kindle the miracle of beauty
Still I remind you of your wings of dust.