My Writing

Valkyrie

Rachel Sandell

These hands

have curled round

the shafts of jagged arrows,

dripping black blood

like ink into the creases

of skin,

painting maps,

revealing myself to me,

my fingertips,

the whorl of the thumb,

the lines criss-crossing

webs in my palm.

These hands

have grasped the branches

of sycamores, 

scraped bark

off evergreens 

on their way down.

These hands

have brushed against

pale pink skin;

blushes upon blushes

hide

the map on my palms.

You don’t walk—

you run.

You don’t fall—

you fly.

You don’t laugh—

you cackle.

You don’t eat—

you devour.

Ever since the moment

our weary legs rested,

and the ink became muddled,

my hands became empty.

Light.

wrong

Now

what am I to do 

with them?

What am I to do

but pull you

toward me—

you, 

not a north star

but a constant supernova,

the strength 

of the heavens,

the thunderous storm—

you 

who are,

inescapably,

irredeemably, 

mercilessly,

monstrously beautiful.

Photo by Devon Janse van Rensburg on Unsplash

Published by Rachel Sandell

Rachel Sandell is a writer and editor from Washington State, where rainy days necessitate long books, hot chocolate, and plenty of magic. Though she specializes in speculative fiction and harbors a love for the dark and enchanting, she also dabbles in poetry and is the archive project coordinator for Fireweed: Poetry of Oregon. She is an MFA graduate from the Rainier Writing Workshop, and her short stories have appeared in SORTES magazine, Night Picnic Press, and Leading Edge magazine.