Loki fucks her on a bed of cinders. She is ink-filled, huge with prickling stars and the dark like falling down a well. (What is this thing we have made? Will it be eight-legged? Will it bite the hands of gods? Hush, dear. You’ll see.) Pleased, half fearful, she traces the hill of her belly. One side burns, the other frosts; in between, in her centre, something reaches for itself. Mist and fire, almost quickened-- (Will its teeth poison the sea? Hush, dear. And now, for my next trick--) Loki curls his fingers inside her. She comes to her senses alone. Black rain mists her thighs and trails the path to the half-open door. She’s sore with curdled milk, flat-bellied as a midwinter lake, and from far away on the cliffbound sea comes laughter and the wail of the void.
Ada Hoffmann is an autistic computer scientist from Canada. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Goblin Fruit, Stone Telling, and Uncanny. You can find her online at ada-hoffmann.com or on Twitter at @xasymptote.