Ain’t that the way it goes?
No?
I thought, you know, that all story, before all the stuff about floods and boats—
you know.
Cassandra?
No? I always confuse her with
Andromeda, and Cassiopeia, and
all those women you really didn’t bother
listening to.
Like me, when I told you I was non-binary too;
I loved the reaction you gave me.
Just like Taming of the Shrew
but in full-colour trauma,
in a life that pretended to be full of vibrant fauna and fauna and fauna,
but was actually about as floral
as the dead, bleached, dying Corsolas
of Galar, and all the reefs that once ringed
my sacred, supposedly feral heart.
The difference is amazing, the similarities all too stark
to what has happened before.
You know, actually, honestly, if you just pay enough attention to JSTOR—
there’s really nothing new here. Nothing to see. Nothing more
than what has already been collated and stored
for generations. In rhyme and memory. Mind and terrifying song.
You know that it is in these mandalas, these circles that become flaming wheels of fire—
that is actually, truly, where you always belonged.