That title comes from a Game of Thrones name generator on Twitter. Plucked from thin air, sprung from the head, surf made manifest – I'll look for meaning anywhere. The internet is a machine for myth-making. My body is a machine for myth-making. I chew my fingernails to make a boat to take us to a place where we know the ending. We walk around with our dead friends’ ashes tattooed into us, looking for our fathers’ eyes in the constellations. In every new day mourning the people we did not become, the people we once were. Clicking, scribing, scything, the spinners measure out the lace of our veils, the knotted tendrils stretching from my face to yours. Brushing the small hairs at the curve of your cheek, the flutter of our twin ravens circling. My body, your body the myths we make. Gentle as a monarch's wing, the good king of our grief with an outstretched hand inviting us all to the table. Who knew that joy could come so quietly and in the dark?
Carl Atiya Swanson is a writer, theatermaker, and advocate for mental health and recovery in creativity. His writing on arts and culture has appeared in InStudio Magazine, Americans for the Arts, mnartists.org, SPIN, and other outlets. Based in Minneapolis, MN, he writes poems to spark little fires in the middle of winter.