Autumnal Queen

The Mother of Ancestors is cold as Niflheim,
yet in her flesh eye is the fire of Muspell,
in her bone hollow, the bloody Well of Mimir
she presses me to her breast, I drink deathly
milk of marrow sweet, a rib cage lullaby, Hela
wraps me in ice and the waters of Helheim, I
reach under a waterfall and am gifted a ring,
it came from the underworld, pewter scrying
mirror, perfect for the chill of rot, rebirth
in arms of phalanges and pale moon flesh, she
is lavender and lunar water, her altar an icon
pressed against quarters for blue feet, rusty
pennies that smell like blood, snowy trappings
to adorn the Queen of the Night, Mani may be
the moon but Hela is the sky ancestors nurse
upon rich stars, each cosmo a pulsing heart,
the afterlife is above us in spanless skies,
and Hela illuminates all the otherworlds with
compassion, her feast is for all, will survive
Ragnarok, and it is not Baldur who brings light
to my forefathers but the goddess of death, yes,
Hela is half-maiden, half-eternity, all royalty,
I would have no other ending but her embrace.

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