Ragnarök—A Prism
By Alexandra Seidel

I am the goddess of many arms.
I am the goddess who sometimes feels
like she is a man
wrapped in this divine skin, framed
by this divine hair.

I am the god and the goddess with many arms
who will wrap each of them
around this world
to hold it close and closer;

some worlds break with pressure, some
dissolve when there is nothing holding them.
Most of us have no idea
into what kind of world we are born.


I saw the world end and
my view of things shifted
A second later and a thought foregone
I saw that there were diamonds wrapped in candy clouds and
burning o so hot, wanting to be held
We are all the touch memory of ourselves
left on other skins
unfading like burnt shadows
after a world ends
Grind my shadow into dust, sift it like clouds;
when it rains—and it will—my starlight
will shower you, just open your hand
to touch my light


I am the god who feels
like he is a girl underneath all of that
tough god skin; I am a god that is
made of fire, and all girls are made of fire.

I am the god and the goddess.
Sometimes worlds end and who can say
what made them stop going?

I am not a god or goddess of
knowing all the whys and whens and wherefores.
I am a god who sometimes doesn’t know
her own shadow when a cloud passes
and makes the sun cut my silhouette.

I wish I could grow arms.
Arms are for building things and holding things
that are falling
so they do not shatter on the ground.


Impact, crack, break.
Harsh as water frosted for drowning
it sometimes takes violence to wake us from
too long and deep a sleep.
Stars might have nested in the corners
of my eyes, caked them sandshut.
There are words like spells to wake a sleeping
beast from silent slumber;
I am risen, and I walk. Clouds
cringe under my feet. I am new;
never was I old, nor will I ever be.


End the world, in thunder.
I refuse to be a god, any goddess, I refuse
the sweetness of prayers.

Skin should not be broken,
but sometimes you bleed even if you don’t bleed.
Only the stars know you have been crying.


I hold the world entire
in the palm of my hand.

I’d give the world entire
only to itself.

I’d let the world entire
go if it went kindly and caring.

This world is made entire
only shared and never owned.

Alexandra Seidel is a lover of black coffee, a wearer of black shirts, and a writer of black letters on white paper. Her writing is waiting for you to read it at places like Mythic Delirium, Lackington’s, Strange Horizons, and others. Connect with Alexa on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/AlexaSeidelWrites/), tweet her @Alexa_Seidel, and read her rabid blog: http://tigerinthematchstickbox.blogspot.com/