the crowning
this  is  how  i’d  like  to  go.  the  night
before st lucia’s      (lucy, dear, breathing
light)      i’d  like  to  hit  the  bars  of
malmö  city.  outside  the  wee café on lilla
torg  (where  every  winter  they serve spicy
wine)  there’ll be  skaters  and the howls of
drunken  teens.  yes,  i  will  too,  to  our
long-forgotten    ancestors    (the    liquor
warming icy skin beneath fells)       until i
am  anaesthetised  and  giddy, trailing layer
after  layer  of  bright  acrylic  cloth,   i
will  arrive  at  the  foot  of  that   final
bridge.  there  to  twist  this  naked  body,
blue  &  blooming,  through the looping cords
of  twinkle  lights  (the battery a box slung
across  the  belly)    and  to  perform  this
version  of  the  seasonal  rites,  step into
the sound and step-by-step
             (the  fizz  of  electricity  and
burning water)         somehow    the    lucy
crown  of  girlhood  will  still  glow,  when
weeks   later  they   find    this   singular
heirloom  atop  a  seaclean  skull
on  a  beach,  just  off  elsinore

Gabriella Jönsson

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