in melancholia I fear I’ll die of this
the old ice-crush on my stomach,
my frozen knuckles rapping the Lady’s rhythms;
the smouldering in my hair
in my ear the acrid snarl of my little Panflute girl.

[the little one is sneaky
she’ll borrow your homework
and feed you to the dog
and before you know it,
run you into next Tuesday,
trembling, limbs afire]

but I could be a phoenix today
I could be a seal.
I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen pain
and though I know I’ll be back here again,
there are promises to be made
and this is not my hill.
I will not die here.
I will not burn.
I will not freeze.
I will not drown.

I will swim
I will swim
I will swim

mama oceana, I’m coming home.

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