Yesterday, in town with The Best Girl, we crowed over baubles and got drunk before noon. I drew a picture of some children flying a flatfish kite. Today I gave directions to a lost Ghost Train. I am not sure that I gave the right directions. This is probably an omen of some kind. In every room I have ever inhabited, there has been a slightly open drawer.
Now I am with the witches in an icy place, blubber on my breath and the conjuring lights. Seal-headed women touch me with ice-chapped hands, breathe out solid. In the cauldron, lichen, barnacle cocks and half-digested food from the baby birds’ bellies. My witch wife loosens my skins, slides bear fingers in, then whalebone, carved with wolves’ mouths and the feet of gulls, and comes the chill that warms until it kills.