Black night intent upon the forge
you bend lightning in your hand
and call thunder from the earth, reluctant
skeletons of flame burst above the bellows
drop at your command.
You the Maker born of dark old books and dust
conjurer of demons, Lord of light and thunder
angel seducer, to you I come
descended from the morning
bringing broken pinions
and a shattered aureole
and there I kneel before you at the forge
feathers brought too near the flame
where you touch my tongue to water
hold my hand to desert stone
and to your voice, I yield
fall to flowers of the sun
that stop my breath with scent.
A stretch of wing beneath the hammer
frenzied cries for flight
fingers of earth that pull me down
pierce me through with light
and beneath your hand, unplumed I lie
and to the fire I fall . . .
And through black night, it is your voice
that holds me to the anvil
and through black night, it is your voice
that opens heaven, opens hell
Your voice the fire upon the forge
the chant arcane that conjures frost
a cold chill wind from open furrow
conjures lake of ice candescence
conjures flame in filament of bone
and in the fire I turn
and twist and burn and rise to fly
caught in shackles forged of gold