Mt Shasta, in early spring. Melting snow. Tender buds.
She holds tight to me, our helmets touching, at speed.
The UFO were all nested here, baby birds, shivering.
Left by a mothership, to do her will, win her battles.
She said she saw gossamer wings in my back, shiny.
She kissed me, said I could fight for her, and win.
The nest was in the mountain, where pale men, ghosts,
plotted the war, fed the baby birds, sharpened their talons.
That night, her body was warm and bare against my back.
She radiated, and swallowed that heat greedily, needy.
Were we soldiers, or angels going home, or releaser of
the light that all things. She said even the UFO shone bright.
I stopped the motorbike, looked at the mountain, helmets touching.
I fight for her. I fight for her, which is fighting for myself, for a home.
We might go home, or we might just leave these corporeal bodies.
We might lift the Demiurge’s curse, and make everyone free and clean.
I revved the motorbike and sped to gate between the road and heaven.
She said I had wings. That I could fight for her. She said I could win.