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"Lille blomst,
If it did not mean taking it from you,
I would string necklaces on the soft
braided wire of your hair in amethyst,
or whatever you like; nothing
could be more beautiful."
It was the single most sentimental thing
you ever said to me.

I think of it still.

When I remember you in my dreaming,
you are old and curved over, eyes
diluted to a milky grey, fingers that
never set straight anymore,
and I believe it's from all the years
I imagined you and I tangled, old string-
like: in the winter half-light of your attic,
I lay on the worktable of your body
and you separated my hair, removing
strands from each other
and sliding down them topaz.

At first, my scalp was weighted only
with monochromatic strings of stones,
lines of painted wooden balls and
that promised amethyst. In the beginning,
you were afraid of breaking
the long tinted pieces of keratin and me.
It took you months to realize it could hold

and one day, you wove together glass
beads and tiger's eyes. Starting then,
my body was a thicket of hard, baked clay
framing my ears, pearls that curled
over my breast and you even threaded
my tendons with silver seeds,
gold spacers, ceramic flowers;
nickel spilling out my mouth
and turning my lips green.

You ached over me so bedazzled, relentlessly,
and kæreste, had I known
you were carving your own bone
to supplement the glittering mass you
had already made of me….

I would never have let things go so far.