By Lucy Whalen

I made the Milky Way out of seaweed

and sang of light in a nursery rhyme,

burnt my fingers on a lighter

as I set the sun ablaze.

I drank from earth and smashed the bottle,

poured sand over her like glitter - watered

with tears of selkies I met

in the smoking area.

I hung the moon up like a disco ball,

breathed life into her lungs 

to the rhythm of a remix

told by ancient tongues.

Breathing, panting, screaming life

I bled my children from the oceans

to sing at the sky

and to learn to stand at the edge of land,

mascara-smudged mermaids

watching the sunrise

and after the final day,

as God stretched in his sleep

beneath the ocean floor,

I stamped meteors

through the ceiling

and 

danced in the flame.