• Eygló Karlsdóttir

Alabaster Gods, a poem


Blue feathers on the trees, instead of leaves.

An alabaster God frowning from an obsidian cliff.

She steps out of the opening,

wearing a cerulean dress

that looks like the ocean gave away some of its waves.

Carving spoons out of wood with a knife,

eating pumpernickel with butter,

and I see her.

It’s love at first sight.

And though she is not mine to love

I find myself running towards her,

trying to hold her,

throwing my anger at her when she shakes her head,

and I am not alone,

a hoard of strange creatures are on my heels,

competing for her affection.

A double headed unicorn with a tear in its eye,

an even limbed monkey with a hardon,

a one eyed deer with black hoofs,

a small evil looking fairy, or an imp, with two horns on its head.

And then there is me.

She pays us no heed,

leaves us alone in our longing, in our lust, in our love

and she wades into the ocean, the waves don’t part for her,

but caress her and for an instant I think that it is just the lover she requires.

Then she turns around, harrowing agony in her eyes,

pain like I’ve never experienced it

and her dress is torn to pieces,

the ocean clawing at her skin,

at her bones,

until there is nothing left.

The creatures scatter, start eating feathers from the trees

until they are blue in the face, uninterested, uncaring.

I’m the only one left.

I want to find her bones,

bury her underneath the cliff,

mindfully put flowers on her grave every night

when the sun transforms everything,

makes it orange and appealing.

I find a small stone and pretend it’s a tooth,

I bury it under the cliff and I dance until I feel the dress around my feet,

until I feel the hair twirling in the wind,

and I raise my hands into the air

and vow to crush the alabaster God

it looks so easy,

but the cliff is a difficult combatant.

Picking leaves off the trees isn’t hard,


but I can no longer eat pumpernickel with butter

nor do I remember how to carve.

I return into the cliff,

with the gifts of each animal in my hands.

Walking back into the cave wipes my memory,

just like yesterday,

and the day before that.

But tomorrow might be different.

Tomorrow is a new day

and all I have to do is not fall in love with the girl

in the cerulean dress,

because she is not mine to love,

not mine to hold,

or desire.

It’s just that it’s so hard to be human.


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